Lopsided T**ties with Scabs on Them

Perhaps a series of images and sounds gathered in your subconscious during the day lead you to remember this bitch who visited your boyfriend in the hospital while you were there.  Aforementioned bitch walked right by you and said nothing.  Your recovering boyfriend was in the hospital bed on the phone.  He looked up briefly, scared as shit – he darted his eyes quickly down to the receiver.  He knew that you knew who she was.  Said bitch didn’t even bother to introduce herself.  So you said, “My name is Sandee AND YOU ARE?!”  She answered so innocently but you knew what the fuck her name was just as well as she knew yours.

Ahhkh, it’s a long story…  I had an issue with her not only because she was pretty.  She was a supposed ‘platonic’ friend of my boyfriend.  He had shown me a picture of her.  I said, “Hell no!  She’s just your friend?  Come on!”  Okay so while I’m not ridiculously jealous, I’m also not that evolved.  The issue wasn’t just her looks — it was some of the things he had told me about her.  She favored husbands and boyfriends of other women.  Her character was shady, besides that.

He tried to convince me that it was all good.  He had shared enough anecdotes, due to my prodding, that I was able to deduce that she was an unprincipled twat.  “Why would you want to be friends with somebody like that?  She’s the devil!”  I said.  How stupid me, yes.

He told me that while they never had sex, she actually did show him her twat.  “She has big titties.  Why didn’t she show you those?  That’s weird,” I said.  “Hey but you know that’s, kinda cool,” I said after reflecting for a moment.  “Funny,” I continued.  “Yeah,” he said, nodding.  “She showed you her pussy – ha!  Like how?”  I said.  “She just lifted her skirt and pulled her panties to the side.”  “Wowww…”

He also told me that she liked metal, and if you’ve seen my last few posts or my ‘About’ page, you’ll see that I’m a death metal enthusiast.  “Hm,” I said when he told me.  She liked metal and uniquely flashed her vagina, while a common woman would have gone for the obvious titty-flash.  This brought another dimension to the situation, to their relationship.  I wondered about who this person might be.  So I fleshed her out to be maybe a little more than just a common twat.  But then I thought, maybe she showed him her vagina because she had lopsided titties with scabs on them.

The Mice in My Life

 

A long time ago I used to think that having mice was morally bad.  If you had a mouse you were derelict in some unspecified way.  I thought that bad dirty people had mice.

Ha!  So dumb, yes.  And I deserve every bit of that very scorn.  I have one now.  He/she lives here.  I don’t try killing it or anything.  Only if I see it, I ask it to please run away, or I stomp in its direction.  Oh holy crap — I only hope it’s the same one!  For all I know each time it could be a different one, which would mean that I have several.

Back in 1988, I saw one for the first time in my apartment on 147^th Street.  I killed it on a glue trap.  I woke up and it was squealing and maimed on that thing.  At work I cried all day.  I swore I’d never kill another mouse.  A few weeks later when another one came, I fed it – no silly, I didn’t go up to it and put food in its mouth – I put the food on the floor for it.

I wrote a poem about a mouse back then.  I had seen a mouse on the train tracks spinning around.  My boyfriend said, “It’s been poisoned!”  I was mad as hell and wrote this:

Damn the putrid human louse

For feeding the small and little brown mouse

Specious vittles on the ground

Causing its deranged and furry frame

To spin round and round and round,

Over and over and over again.

These aren’t the exact words because I’m only remembering loosely what I had written.  I’d have to dig the original out from somewhere and it would be too exhausting – you’ll get the gist though.  Also, please forgive the poetry — I was young.

After living where I am now for seven years, I saw one for the first time.  They get on my nerves now.  I’ll maybe see one every couple of years.  But one day there were five.  My boyfriend and I saw one, he killed it, and then another one came and he killed that one.  Another one came and by this time I was hysterically yelling, “Get it, get it, get it!”  We ran around the apartment behind them and my boyfriend swatted them with a broom.  Shortly after I went jogging and came back.  I asked my boyfriend if another had come.  He said with his head downcast, “I wasn’t going to tell you.  But, yeah, I killed two more while you were out.”  I felt that they were taking advantage of me, so I cried – it was that time of the month.  He said maybe one just had babies.  At that point my love affair with mice — over!

While I sometimes get the urge to feed them, I don’t always look at them like they’re all cute and everything, because I know, given the opportunity they’ll try to take over.  If we spoke the same language – if I could squeak to them or if they spoke English, it would be fine because I could communicate with them, but I don’t so they aren’t going to be welcomed here anymore.