saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I shop for pets in the bargain bin.
Okay, let's get this out of the way:
Space shuttle…crash…blahblahblah…very sad…war…blusterbluster pompous opinion…Michael Jackson…scarier than war…and FUCK WINTER. YOU HEAR ME? FUCK IT.
It's freezing cold in my office. I wore the wrong bra today. What does this mean?
That's right, kids. Bandaids on my nipples. Good times.
So I've been busy, yes. And I'm sorry for not updating. I'll try to be more attentive to your needs. I promise. Valentine's Day is coming up, and I'll buy you all a pony to show my love on the day that has been designated for me to show it.
That came out a lot more bitter than I meant it to. And I'm totally serious about the accuracy of the level of my bitterness. It's the essence of me, after all.
While talking with a friend last night, I realized that every one of the pets I've had since I was ten-years-old has been either emotionally, mentally, or physically maimed in some way. Sometimes it's even two out of three, if I got really lucky. I'd like to comment on why this is, but I can't bring myself to admit that I'm either a sucker for the pathetic lower life forms in this world, or I relate somehow to them.
Let's take a look:
Caesar – My first cat, when I was ten-years-old. He was nearly blind from birth. I didn't get to know him very well before my Angel of Merciful Death mother got a hold of him and made sure he was delivered post-haste to the afterlife.
C.J. – I owned this little gem when I was sixteen. She was brain damaged. Or maybe just learning-disabled. Couldn't seem to conquer the immense task of sleeping without falling off of things. Even when she was taking a snooze in the middle of a queen-sized bed.
Emiko – Another pet from when I was sixteen. She liked to leap upon people and chew on their scalps. During a traumatizing time period when she seemed to perceive the breakdown of my family unit, she took a downward spiral into rebellion and began asserting her independence by shitting all over the second-floor carpet repeatedly.
Mishka – I was nineteen-years-old when I got Mishka. She had a broken tail that healed badly, making it very sensitive. Taunted so often by my so-called friends when I was away that she became consumed with barely-suppressed rage. Once tried to kill and eat my roommate.
Sam – I was also nineteen when I owned Sam. Birth defect caused her to have thumbs. Too bad they didn't serve some useful purpose, like allowing her to open doors and cans of beer. Instead, they got caught on any piece of fabric that she happened to be near at the time. I had to rescue her more times than I can count from where she was bound to the couch, hanging by her thumbs patiently until I arrived to set her free.
Pudding – I got her when I was twenty-six. She showed up pregnant. Never spoke of the father.
Lulu – Arrived in my home as a twenty-seventh birthday present. She had been discovered abandoned in an alley during a rain storm and delivered to a shelter. I found her sitting in a cage, sneezing and doing a very good job just looking like a threadbare toupee instead of a cat. She now has a chronic cold, which is sometimes funny when she runs around the house and then nearly collapses from lack of lung capacity. I'm thinking of getting her an inhaler. Maybe a pocket protector for good measure.
If I were to want to balance out the downside of the complete insanity inherent in all of my pets, I'd point out that they also turned out to be excellent spider hunters, alarm clocks, and stress relievers. But I just have to dwell on their defects. Because they're strange. And quirky. And fucking funny as all hell.
And, okay. I'll admit it. They were flawed, and I liked it. For whatever reason you want to attach to it, I did like it.
Next time, I think I'd like to own a three-legged dog with a bad case of dandruff and narcissistic personality disorder.
I'm trying to branch out.
3:40 p.m. - 2003-02-05
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