It’s the kind of thing that feels impossible to articulate, until you see it written down like this and go, Oh shit. It speaks to the way that many women, especially young women, move through the world: not making people angry, taking responsibility for other people’s emotions, working extremely hard to keep everyone around them happy.

In an interview accompanying the story, Roupenian explains: ‘Cat Person’ is terrifyingly accurate, horribly real, unavoidably relatable.

(Bradbury 2).Isabella Manfredi Details Widespread Sexual Harassment In Music Industryīut ‘Cat Person’ manages to not just be about a single bad date or one uncomfortable sexual encounter somehow, Roupenian has captured a universal experience that many women have been, until now, completely unable to describe. They passed one house on one street amoment later, one house in an entire city of housesthat were dark, but this one particular house had all ofits electric lights brightly lit, every window a loudyellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.That's my house, said Leonard Mead.No one answered him. To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies. To the Psychiatric Center for Research onRegressive Tendencies. The car hesitated, or rather gave a faintwhirring click, as if information, somewhere, wasdropping card by punch-slotted card under electriceyes. Get in.Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!Get in.I protest! (Bradbury 2). The back door of the police car sprangwide. They drive by a brightly lit house and Mead exclaims that it's his house. Stay where you are! Don't move!He halted.Put up your hands!But- he said.Your hands up! Or we'll Shoot!The police, of course, but what a rare, (Bradbury 2). Leonard finds out that he's being put in the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.Ī metallic voice called to him:Stand still.

Eight-thirty P.M.? Time fora dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? Acomedian falling off the stage?Was that a murmur of laughter from within amoon-white house? He hesitated, but went on whennothing more happened. What is it now? he asked the houses,noticing his wrist watch. He wouldstand upon the corner of an intersection and peerdown long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in fourdirections, deciding which way to go, but it reallymade no difference. What is it now? Eight-thirty P.M.? Time fora dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? Acomedian falling off the stage?Ī police car stops him and a police officer confronts him. Leonard talking to the houses, nobody responds, but someone laughs.ĭAMN BRO, YOU GOT THE WHOLE SQUAD LAUGHING. Leonard Mead is walking along an intersection.

The pedestrian short story