For My Two Favorite Idiots
For
My Two Favorite Idiots
I know you guys won't be able to read this, but maybe, somehow, some
way, you'll get the gist of it. Feel the intent behind what's either
gonna get clawed or chewed to pieces depending on which one of you
gets to it first. I mean, probably not. But I'm writing a letter to a
dog and a cat; “rational” isn't really me right now.
The long and short of it is that I realized that being happy, well,
it's kind of like owning you guys. Except it's a version of owning
the two of you that involves nobody bothering to tell me that you
both have late stage terminal cancer and I'm gonna have to watch you
both die a hell of a lot sooner than I'm ready for, like probably
right when I'm starting to get used to the idea of you being a part
of my life, and that feeling will hit its peak right when those
tumors I didn't know were growing inside you hit that critical mass
that leaves you coughing blood and convulsing in my fucking arms and
I don't even really get a chance to be sad about the idea that I'm
going to lose you or even really to do anything about it
before I'm holding a carcass.
And I'm fucking tired. I can't do it anymore. It seems like every
time I crawl out of the canyon, the handholds get smaller, the walls
get higher, and the fall gets harder.
It's not like I really have any reason to feel this way. I just do.
I mean, I could point to incidents here and there that made it worse,
but then I think about how pathetic it is that I even allowed those
things to set me off this way and then I go down the “well if
you're gonna be so pathetic that something like that makes you want
to kill yourself, then maybe you should just kill yourself, because
what the fuck kind of a life is one lived in a state of constant
torment over every little thing, and yeah I don't choose to feel or
react like that, at least not completely, but then that element of
choice or a lack of choice is a good reason to die, too, because hey,
man, fuck it, I'm going nowhere in ten years, nowhere in twenty, why
not just cut out the middleman between me and the nothing at the end,
you know?” road. And I don't think people get that asking me “why”
just doesn't fucking help anything. Maybe that's why we get along.
Sometimes. When I'm not passed out on the couch. You guys never ask
me why.
And sometimes, that alone is worth every piss puddle I have to wipe
of the floor, every dirty litterbox I have to clean, every carpet I
have to replace because you won't use the goddamn scratching post
because apparently cat claws aren't stretched and sharpened quite
right if the the surface you're honing them on isn't of personal
value to someone you love.
And you guys do, don't you? I mean, as much as you can. And I think
I do, too. Maybe, kinda. If nothing else, I don't mind the two of
you, which is more than I can usually say. So that's why you guys get
this, and everyone else gets nothing. You're what I had. I know I
wasn't the best owner, but thanks for sticking by me.
Just do me a favor and don't fuck your next owner's carpet up, ok?
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