So I'm just wandering round the house ya know and I'm all hunky dory and in a good mood as " da uge" and that dog's laughing at me cause as per every other day he's just put in a good mood by my face, only this time it seems more, this time it seems personal, and I can see that between getting distracted by noises and stuff he's kind of looking back and forth between me and like something on the wall and I'm like WTF, I mean, he's like squawking at this point I mean, not giggling, but like actually sqawking and I'm like what up Pancho Villas, which is a weirdo name for a Newfoundlander, which coffuddles me, and he's like just realized he lets me know that lo and behold the thing on the wall with some horrendous blond and cock-and-blue-eyed furball on it is like me and I'm like no f-ing way old P, I mean how's can that be, I mean it's been like a full four weeks and just now have you pieced it all together, I thought it was a cousin thrice removed P, this pains me, are you for serious? And he just sqawks some more and I kind of huddle up on his head and get up on all wabbly fours and he walks me over to it and I can tell, for the first time that he's like not BSing, he's being legit like it's back in style, he's being truthful like the mean old truth store is having a firesale and he got the best deal, and I can see that he's all fact to the big meaty bone because there's something at eye level next to the furball that looks like the furball, only it's sitting on something that looks exactly like P, only it's doing every movement I am, I mean it's moving one way when I do and the P thing is dribbling saliva when the dog is and I can see the TV behind us and the chew toys and my scratchy post and I just about loose it and let go some big not-so breed specific tears all over Pancho's big skully and softy and not brainy head. I'm fugly and distraught. I'm beside myself. Only I am myself. Which is problematic. F-Bomb.
P isn't sqawking or even laughing anymore and he gives my little butt-ugly butt-eyed face a long slugger of a lick and I still don't feel better, although I do feel refreshed. I sulk for hours. I become narcissus' flipside, Lulu Lemon, holistically ugly five week kitten, only survivor out of five, the horrible blue-eyed thing. After a while P gets tired and frankly bummed about having presented all this stuff to me and won't even hoist me up to that dreamy realm of nightmarish void again, where I see my one true self again, and he just kind of slinks off to lick himself privately somewhere dark. I just keep on hacking coughballs up on the carpet and spreading out some kind of a puddle of my own reflective tears and muff on the carpet. I'm bummed is what I'm saying, I'm out of furrballs, I'm all washed up. I'm bleeping sad moms. So no, lets not rent a kids movie, and no Ferris Bueller either. Let's just rent something about ugly people. You can drown me while we watch. Something with Andre the Giant, or maybe like 16 candles or ground hog day, if you can have me dead before it gets all happy. I'm pooped. There is no god.
No comments:
Post a Comment