Posts Tagged ‘dog’


Posted: October 29, 2016 in hidden admonishment

She’s worth it.



Posted: April 17, 2015 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

“So, what are we going to do if we get evicted?”

Who the fuck cares?  At this point they’re lucky I don’t burn it down out of spite.

My body has started to object to how much physical labor I demand from it daily, and I wish you dead every day.  Just fucking die.

The nights would not be complete without sirens.  It’s such a prominent part of the neighborhood that I can easily tune it out along with the sound of shots fired, and the low musical rumble of car audio base.  At some point having bullet holes–both incoming and outgoing–pepper the walls just becomes part of the decor.

I exaggerate.  There are only four bullet holes, and I screamed when they dropped in.

Sometimes, nice people just need more specific directions to the drug den across the street, three houses to the east, or in the west corner lot next door…depending on demeanor.  That’s fine, but get the fuck off my stoop and be on your way.

Please, don’t loiter in my backyard.  Cut through, but keep moving.  Despite what the fast food fucks sharing the lot line want you to think, this isn’t part of their thoroughfare either.

If getting a dog gets us evicted, when the neighbors can ram their car into our wall without consequence, I’m fine with that.

Believe is or not, my student loan debt isn’t going to dictate my surroundings forever, and an eviction from this wouldn’t fuck up my permanent record enough for me to give a shit.

Now…you said something about a dog?

I hope you’re happy.

Posted: November 13, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , , ,

How many people have accidentally clogged their toilets with damar varnish?
Should I pour solvent down there?
It’s in the carpet, too.

I didn’t even paint anything.
That’s the tricky part.

Don’t worry. My plunger solved everything
except for the deep seated psychological trauma
that woke me up to damar varnish oozing into the carpet in the first place.

For some reason I’ve combined my disdain for most musicals
with the joys of chopping up ten-year-old girls and stringing them into
marionette sex puppets.

I think it’s best not to ask, and I should probably delete that.


I wish my parents had taught me how to tactfully tell people to leave me the fuck alone.
No, I don’t want to sit with your family for Thanksgiving.
No, I don’t want to watch your shitty little dog again.
No, I’m not going to shave it off for you.


What do I have to say to get it to sink in?
Blunt honesty doesn’t seem to do it.

I really do want to spend “The Holidays” alone.
It’s not my responsibility to recommend someone else to you who might want to watch your fucking dog.
There are plenty of bald, freshly powdered and painted whores out there who would be more than willing to leave quietly with all of your money in the middle of the night.

I don’t want to wake up remembering anymore.
I don’t care if you’re better than me.
Good for you.
Why the fuck do you consider it worth your time to remind me?

Do you need a response that fucking badly?
I’ve responded.

Tactless as usual.