When I woke up this morning, I looked over at the window across the hallway and thought I saw a cat sitting on one of the shelves. I thought, "huh, I remember closing Yarmulke and Bouncer in the computer room before I went to bed." But it was just a strategically-shaped bag of polyester fiberfill (which I use for stuffing the various knitted creatures I always make) that really did look like a tail-less cat, the way the light hit it.
Bob woke up that morning, wiping the dried gook from his eyes the way his mother had wiped his butt when he was a baby. He yawned, baring his teeth like a roaring lion. He staggered to the bathroom in a zombie-like fashion, reaching for the shower knobs as though they were the brains he craved. The waterfall pounded his scalp, whirpooling into the drainal abyss. Inside his cavernous belly, a hunger growled like a desperate cat in heat, and he ached for the hot pockets his mom kept in the fridge.
Ok, so half of those are similes, but oh well. The example used them too. I like speaking in metaphors a lot.