So I’ve been pet-sitting these chickens. I’m not so sure about chickens. There are flies everywhere, and poop. The dog eats the poop and probably the flies. Then he tracks the poop in the house and I have to follow him around with a rag. But the dog, I love the dog. I always love the dog and I never want to leave the dog. It’s a problem. Once I wrote a story about a woman who steals a cat from a cat show and maybe it was a premonition. Since I care for pets professionally, I should take this time to reassure “you” that I am only joking.
Anyway, there were supposed to be five chickens. I counted five along with my client. But wouldn’t you know there are actually six. Six chickens. I wonder, will my client come home tomorrow and think I stole her a new chicken? And, because I’m me, I also wonder if I’ll lose my job and get arrested and then get evicted as a result of my heinous crime. I didn’t do it, I swear!
I have this strange urge to “blog” but I don’t know that anyone reads these things. I don’t care about SEO and blogger-speak. I can’t even read other peoples’ blogs because it’s all so dry and heartless. I feel so old-man-yells-at-cloud about the Internet sometimes.
Here are my Google searches from the past few days:
Go fish lesbian fashion
do chickens poop eggs
chicken egg hole
candles on the toolbox
does louisiana have medicaid
The dog I’m watching humped a husky at the park. Both the husky and the shepherd, “my” dog, stared at me, horrified. The next time I criticize myself for not being grounded I will meditate on this image.
I’ve fallen in love with this shepherd, even though he ate the cat food and dropped diarrhea all over his person’s light gray almost white carpet. This dog’s a “traveling pooper,” which, if you’re not a pet-care professional, means he keeps walking as he shits. I counted fourteen shit splats. After hours in panic mode, crying, sopping up shit with vinegar, terrified I’d have to pay for an expensive new carpet, I got it all out. The carpet looks brand new. I still expected to lose this recurring gig with my new shepherd love once his person learned what’d happened. The owner’s response was not to blame me, however. Instead, she said, “Thanks for the cleanup. Seems the cat food is too rich for his stomach.”
When I think “Why am I like this?” I do not allow myself to answer.
I’ve been saying “yes” to every opportunity. That Shonda Rhimes thing, just say “yes.” Obviously I need to be more in the moment. Except now I forget to eat and sleep and write and kiss my girlfriend because I’m too busy yes-ing.
I once overheard a woman tell a friend, “We don’t say ‘no’ in our house.” That woman had a five year old son. A five year old son who never hears “no.”
In other news, the cat I’m watching is very Bauhaus.
My friend Metal Nikki took this photo today at the Portland Women’s March.
Tiny block that wasn’t a Lego but was mixed in with the Legos. Yard of velour. Press-out cardboard coins from math book. Bag of rhinestones. Candy pacifier. Frozen olive loaf sandwich. Puff-paint. Candle the shape of a hand with wicks on all five fingertips. Monopoly dog. Espresso mug. Handpainted castle. All of the soda cans in the soda machine. Wad of dollar bills (three days a week). Blank tape, high fidelity. No Alternative. Seedy weed. Buick Century. Box of wine. Chocolate Ex-Lax. Twenty dollar bill. Polyester zip-up. Camel Cash. Marshmallow bags. Vital wheat gluten. Machinedrum. Tank of gas on turnpike. Methadone wafer. E-mail password. Philly girl’s wallet. Sparkly stickers. Louisana Purchase card. First generation Ipod Photo (two). Keybumps. Swiss army knife (pink for women). Leash for children. Champagne flute. Maine Coon cat. Caitlin’s expired driver’s license. Klonopin. Trent Reznor’s poolside gargoyle (two). Morning Italian bread delivery. Tiny palm tree. Red Cross hotel voucher. Nitrile glove. Decorative outdoor lamp. Headless gingerbread body. Individual tampon. Dodge Ram. Boots without holes. Fizzy drink. Fred Meyer gift card. High-quality flannel shirt. Talk of Texas okra pickles (hot). Boss Metal Zone. Obsidian chunk. Credit increase. Heirloom tomato. Bouillon pack. Bottle of lube. Lighters. New Seasons sandwich. Nine of spades.
Lithograph by Leonor Fini, who said this (about marriage):
“Marriage never appealed to me, I’ve never lived with one person. Since I was 18, I’ve always preferred to live in a sort of community – A big house with my atelier and cats and friends, one with a man who was rather a lover and another who was rather a friend. And it has always worked.”
She also said this (about painting):
“I strike it, stalk it, try to make it obey me. Then in its disobedience, it forms things I like.”
Fini was disguised as a boy for the first seven years of her life to avoid kidnapping. Her work heavily depicts femininity as power, as well as the connection between woman and cat.
She learned to draw bodies by hanging out in morgues.
Source: CFM Gallery
a fight breaking out in group therapy
that i look like a carol or a cathy
being the oldest person at Forever 21
getting caught eating taco bell in the car
moths who play dead on walls
guitar picks shaped like moths who play dead on walls
the ID-checker telling me I’m not me
saying I Love You in my sleep
defended my thesis, got a masters degree, turned a new age, won’t see my lady for two entire months, projectile-vomited for the first time, made a vow to myself, started the 30-day plank challenge, fell in love with the new Rihanna record