cats smoking and women

Sunday, February 5, 2006.  4:00am

The phone is ringing.  I can’t turn the phone off because my hands are glued to a stuffed leopard shark and if I move we’ll both be very cold.  His tiny, plastic, marble eye is already branding my cheek with what might appear to be boils in the morning. 

The phone is ringing again.  By this time I’ve tried so hard to block out the sound that the battery on my clown waving with human hands clock has stopped. 

I’m out of touch.  I’m out of time.   

I realize there are three cold, hard, plastic things touching me in my bed.  At 4:00am you definitely have time to focus on them. 

1.  Someone’s lack of better judgment with a chewed antenna ringing in my eyes.

2.  Shark Eater, the shark named by my tiny cousin Riley.

3.  Am I Bridget Jones, or fucking what?  I wake up mostly every morning with the indentation of a vibrator in one of my thighs.  More or less embarrassing than the time I had to have words with a giant man roach staking his claim on a tub of Ben & Jerry’s wedged in between the computer and the wall? 

Anyway, it was also cold.   

Sometimes people will do anything to stay on your mind. 

File this under horrible text messages received from people I’ve dated.

“I hope dogs eat your breasts off.” 

This time I agreed. 

I do hope dogs eat my breasts off. 

But I have a feeling this has less to do with that and more to do with the fact that I raped you of your masculinity by putting that toy on your taint. 

We should be friends!