Cat F(l)ight
I suppose I shouldn’t have thrown the cat out of the window. I have a tendency to overreact when I’m stressed. Up till now it’s been a lifelong cross to bare. I’m not sorry for the loss of the cat, of course. Sabrina the Cat never cared for me, and the feeling was mutual. Since the first day I came into contact with the animal, I had the sneaking suspicion I’d end up tossing it to it’s death. Sometimes you just know.
Sabrina met her feline end because, as I said, I was stressed and angry. What had my color up so? I found out my girlfriend was cheating on me with Sabrina. Carol turned lesbian and zoophile on me after weeks of deriding me with passive aggression. I can’t fully blame her, or the cat who was an innocent victim of our relationship. I’d been lacking in several areas over the last few months, trying my very best to erode the muck which has clogged up my passion for seeing through my days. Walking to and from my car in a funk, carrying it over interstate roads to work and back home at the end of the day. It’s easy for routine to grab hold, easier still to ignore the pain when it’s on schedule. I haven’t had sex with Carol in four months. It’s not that Carol has changed much herself, with exception of the most recent aside into gay beastiality, I just haven’t found myself willing or able to achieve an erection worth sharing since stumbling upon my own decaying facilities.
During our blow up, knock down, throw-the-cat-out-the-window last fight, I stirred something lose from the shackles inside and rode my fury to my current positioning of optimistic self-interest. Carol wanted to hurt me so she smeared tuna fish over her privates and laid spread eagle on the couch I found for us outside of a Planned Parenthood. I don’t know if the couch once resided inside the offices, paying cushion to many women looking to lighten their load, or if the couch had been left by religious protesters who wanted the comforts of home along with t-shirts designed with anti-woman slogans. In hindsight, I was asking for trouble when I pulled my truck over and took a good look at the couches condition, judgmental eyes scanning for little white stains, finding none. I don’t know that I believe in hauntings, or curses, though I have always taken heed not to mess too much with the bad mojo of the world and it’s (non)spawned children. I must have been sloppy that day.
Carol told me the cat went down on her better than I ever had. I agreed with the assumption and opened the window.
Since Carol and I shared a home, I’m essentially homeless now since the murder of her pussy. Tomorrow, when Carol is away at work or the kennel, I’ll sneak home to remove my more enjoyed percessions. Maybe I’ll check the vacancies at the YMCA, there’s a chance I’ll find room, board, and a new best friend named Victor, who injects heroin into his taint to ease the burden of his own not so well-being. Chance is all you have really, living in a random universe. Things could go up from here, or descent into a new nightmarish reality, I’m giving no allusions of good faith.
Who knows, there’s a chance I might actually care when I get there.
——
Peter J. McCann,
November, 2011.
2 Notes