Shared Desires -- Different Endings

There is a power in writing, and there is a greater power in sharing our stories.  I'm certain that I have before shared the C.S. Lewis quote, "We read to know we are not alone."  The same might be said of writing.  Our stories often reveal our souls, and when such stories are shared, the writer is often hoping to be heard, hoping to know that he or she is not alone, hoping to know that he or she might yet be saved.  In the same turn, some stories are shared to let others know they are not alone, their pain has been felt, and survived by others.  Our stories can give others strength.  I am truly astounded by the strength of the young writer who composed the following guest post.  She leaves us with an important lesson to be alert, be involved, and be gentle for everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about.  Further, we have the power to shape our own stories and we can be the hero instead of drafting a horror tale.  Finally, I would like to thank the anonymous author of this story for inspiring me to write and share once again, as it has surely been one of my struggles.  Thank you, dear girl with a beautiful smile and strong spirit.    -- Angela 

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Shared Desires -- Different Endings 

I have fantasized about killing my stepfather. Several times, actually, and those fantasies were always deeply satisfying.  There was freedom in that fantasy.  That fantasy almost became reality on one occasion. After another day of repeatedly labeling his family as worthless and stupid individuals, my stepfather wrapped his hands around my mother’s throat so tightly that he nearly killed her. Witness to this terrible and violent encounter, I refused to remain silent and I pounded my clenched fists against his back until he stopped. After releasing his grip on my exhausted, despondent mother, he turned to me and wickedly laughed in my face.

“What the fuck are you going to do about it, you stupid piece of shit?” he asked me.

I didn’t know how to respond, or what to do next, but I was so angry I was shaking uncontrollably and felt enraged into possibly vengeful actions. In a mocking motion, my stepfather shook his head at me while proceeding to the kitchen, while my mom lay on the floor temporarily unconscious. I looked at her helpless, limp body on the floor and I was overcome with indignation and a desire for some justice or peace. He returned from the kitchen and handed me a knife, with an air of arrogant authority.

He whispered in my ear, “Go ahead. Show me you aren’t just a scared little bitch. I dare you to use this,” he further taunted, “Really, I’d love for you to try.”

I kept such severe scenes of abuse a well-guarded secret from nearly everyone in my life. I internalized my pain and, after years of guilting and shaming myself, the pain manifested itself in the form of self-injurious behavior.  I would have horrific nightmares every night and my incessant thoughts were often dark. Eventually, I channeled this negativity into writing. I composed haunting short stories about rape, abuse, and murder. I often scared my own self  with how twisted and troubled the dark recesses of my mind could be – those spots where I hid my secrets and protected the same wicked man I had often wished to kill. At times, I felt so depressed and dejected that I wanted to end my life; other times I was so incensed that I sought to end my torment by taking my stepfather’s life.

Such memories – and such dark desires – returned hastily to me as the news of a local homicide shocked our small town. The images of a troubled young female named Ashlee flashed across television screens and dominated news feeds. Ashlee, a seventeen year old junior, was attending the very same high school from which I graduated when she allowed her own dark desires to control her actions, leading to inconceivable loss.  Ashlee shot and killed her stepfather this past weekend, and she also stabbed her mother to death after falsely imprisoning her three younger siblings behind locked and tied bedroom doors.  She then fled to Indiana, where she was promptly located by authorities. Many are aware that Ashlee published horrific short stories and poems on a personal blog titled “Nightmare.” Such tales and tributes clearly demonstrate the degree to which Ashlee’s mind was troubled. It is further common knowledge among her peers that Ashlee even shared aloud, in her high school English course, one of her stories about stabbing someone to death and delighting in such destruction. I believe such public sharing was her way of asking for help. Obviously, and quite regrettably, her cries for help fell upon deaf ears. The result is the loss of life for two individuals and the loss of innocence for three more.

My story could have been all too similar to Ashlee’s ghastly fictional tales and real life appalling horror.  Fortunately for me, I had friends who recognized the times when I was troubled and reached out to me. They would ask me to stay over at their house or tell me how much they cared about me. Such simple acts helped to save my life, and the life of the man who tormented our family. I also had teachers who sensed something was amiss with my home life and pulled me out of class to ask about my bruises and work toward securing my physical safety and emotional well-being. I had people who genuinely, truly cared about me and my welfare. I had people in my life who saw the warning signs and didn’t simply turn a blind eye; they helped me through my struggles and helped me find my inner strength.  

So when my stepfather handed me that knife that day, I gripped it so god-damn hard that my knuckles ached and my teeth clenched so that my jaw throbbed. I stared intently at that bastard for a while, thinking about what would happen if I did actually proceed to plunge the knife into his chest. I knew no one would miss him. I knew my life would be a hell of a lot better without him in it. But then I thought about all the people who loved me. There were suddenly so many people I could think of with fondness and gratitude. It actually brought tears to my eyes to consider how much I was cared for, despite my stepfather’s disregard, and before I could change my mind, I told him, “No. Because if I did that, I’d be no better than you. And I am so much better.”

That is how the story ended that day.  I put down the knife, and worked fervently to set aside all my anger as well. But imagine how differently I might have reacted if I hadn’t been able to bear in mind all those people who consistently reached out to me in my time of need. What if I had been bullied at school? What if I felt none of my peers cared about me? What if my teachers and mentors had ignored the bruises and ignored my need to heal? You might have seen my name in the headlines for homicide too.

I am in no way stating that Ashlee’s actions are acceptable, and she must be held accountable for her crimes. Further, I am truly sorry for this family’s immense loss. I don’t personally know Ashlee, so I cannot ascertain if emotional or physical abuse drove Ashlee’s regrettable decisions. However, I do know that by failing to see Ashlee’s warning signs, we have failed her as a community. It is crucial that we as individuals each take the time to reach out to those whom we see are hurting. I pray that we can take this as a lesson to extend care, compassion, and consideration to everyone we meet.  

The Greatest Guest Post Ever

I feel immensely blessed to introduce today's guest post.  This post comes from a former student who wrote this piece in response to criticism that I received regarding this blog and my profession.  I am so grateful to Maggie for her kind and inspiring words.  I hope that the following post inspires and moves all readers the way it encouraged me.  Maggie's words make me want to be a better person, and I thank her exceedingly for seeing me as I believe I am.  This post brought tears to my eyes, and filled me with both deep hurt and vast happiness. I feel hurt that we live in a world that persistently and painfully insists I am incapable of being both an individual with bipolar disorder and a highly competent, inspiring educator. I feel happiness I know otherwise, and Maggie’s words contradict such ignorance and judgment so articulately.  I hope that Maggie will continue to write her own hurt and share her stories, as I truly believe words offer such help and healing, which Maggie also brilliantly attests to here.  So, thank you yet again, Maggie, and thanks to all of my continued readers.  I appreciate your support!

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From the very first day of my sophomore English class, Mrs. ----- left an impression on me. Most of what was in her syllabus was the same as other classes: respect your teacher, come on time, and make up your missed work. But for the first time in a classroom I was in, Mrs. ---- clearly stated that the words “gay” or “retarded” were not acceptable. As a young teen, susceptible to peer-pressure, I had used these words without giving them a thought to their damage because I heard everyone else say them. I was surprised initially when I read that on her syllabus, mostly because no one in that school had ever corrected me or my fellow students when using them. I thought what’s the big deal? These words don’t hurt anyone; they are just words. (Yes, my mom did teach me better than that, but I guess I was still naive.) Another student had the same thoughts as I and questioned Mrs. ---- in a rude manner. I will never forget what she said to him: “Using those words for a synonym for stupid is unacceptable.  Whether intended or not, there’s an implication there that is painful. I don’t care if it doesn’t offend you; it may offend someone in this room. This is a safe place for all of you and I intend to keep it that way. I will not tolerate abusive language in my classroom.” And that’s when it clicked for me that I was guilty of this, that it was hurting someone, and so I stopped. (Thank you, Mrs. ----!)

Every day I went to her class, I learned something new and had a few laughs. She was always honest with us and pushed us to be our best. The worst comment I ever got on a paper from her was “I know you can do better than this.” She was right, of course, because I wrote it the night before. She was the kind of teacher that inspired you to do better work because she believed in her students, and she helped us to recognize our own talents, and not because of recognition or the effects to one’s GPA.  I enjoyed her so much that I took two advanced debate classes when I was not quite confident in my abilities as a speaker or writer. I was nervous and unsure of myself constantly, but I tried. I was far from great at debate, but Mrs. ---- showed me how to have some fun with it when it actually scared me to death. At the end of the class, I even got “The Best Listener Award.” When she gave it to me, she announced, “This girl hears everything, even when it seems like she’s not paying attention at all.  You guys (my classmates) think she goofs around a lot, but you underestimate her.” She had figured me out in those three years of being her student, and I am still very proud of that award!

I graduated that year and lost contact with Mrs. ----, whom I now know as Angela. Sometime last year, I found her blog online and was a little bit startled by the content because I was so used to seeing her as this incredibly professional teacher.  When reading her blog, I was first taken off guard when I read the word “fuck,” and her writing also shook me out of my comfort zone, and discussed a lot of darker content. However, it was hard not to love her words.  She spoke of many traumatic things I had faced in my life with a fresh, humorous perspective. In each post, I found deeper themes of strength, individuality, hope, passion, and compassion. She was so real -- so unapologetically herself -- that I couldn’t wait for her to post another story every week.  I never felt she was encouraging her readers to use foul language or act irresponsibly.  Rather, she was encouraging us to be true to ourselves and stay strong, to stand up for what we believe in, and to find happiness and joy in a world that is often unfair.

What she didn’t know until after I became one of her biggest fans, was that I grew up in an abusive home. I watched my mother be humiliated and beaten in front of me since I was nine, and I got verbal abuse every day after school. I had low self-esteem and was very depressed. As a high school student, Mrs. ---‘s classes gave me something to look forward to every day when I got up for school. Now, years later, reading her stories of mental illness and the multitude of struggles she has overcome, Mrs. --- continues to inspire me so much. I said to myself, if she can beat this, so can I. She followed her dreams; she didn’t let anyone tell her she couldn’t do something. She became who she wanted, not who others told her she had to be. Her honest and hopeful words have opened up an entirely new world of possibilities for me.

So thank you, Angela, for showing us who you are completely. You are an inspiration to me and I’m sure plenty of others out there. Thank you for having the strength and courage to show yourself when the world tells you to stop. You amaze me in many ways.

And to all you former or current students of hers out there reading this: there will come a time in your life when someone else will try to diminish your flame, like some people have tried to do here. They will try to force you or ask you to give up that thing that makes you different, that thing that makes you feel alive. Whether it’s because they don’t understand it, they wish they had it, or purely out of animosity and don’t want you to be happy, they are going to try to change you. Don’t let them. Everybody is somebody special. Yes, even you. You are special. You are someone no one else is, and that’s important to the world. (Yes, I still stand by this even if you’ve read this entire post wishing I would shut up already. You are special too, even though you are a turd.) Please don’t change who you are because it may be easier, cooler, or more convenient, because one day you may wake up and not know the person staring back at you in the mirror. We live in a world where everyone is pressured to fit a certain mold. I say fuck the mold! It’s okay to be different. And it’s okay to be you!

But with this realization, you also must also recognize that just like you, others have a right to be different, too. When you see someone be unfearfully themselves, embrace the shit out of that. Don’t ask someone to blow out their fire because you don’t get it or it makes you uncomfortable. Do you even realize how beautiful that is? It is not easy being different. It’s not easy to stand out in a society that wants everyone to be the same. It’s not easy to have a voice when the world shouts at you to be silent. It’s not easy to do the right thing when the wrong thing is considered the norm. It’s not easy, but it is so worth it.

So I ask of all of you, please fan that fire, that fire that warms your soul and makes you feel at home, that fire that screams individuality, that fire that is only dangerous when it is runs out. Fan the fire, in others and within yourself. Celebrate it when you see it and love it!

I hope to celebrate Angela’s fiery spirit, and her words, for much longer; I hope you will join me. 

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I would like to thank Maggie yet again for this wonderful post! I would also like to make you all aware that I will be posting infrequently throughout the summer as I will be working on my graduate degree during summer session, as well as (hopefully) devoting more of my writing to one project for possible publication. Therefore, should any of my readers have an interest in guest blogging, please message me via facebook.  I would love to host your words.  I would be especially interested in hosting more former students, as I know there are many skilled writers among you.  I hope to have Maggie returning too with her own stories.  Please leave her comments and feedback on this post! 

An Open Letter to the Men of Online Dating

Thanks to another migraine this month, I currently lack the energy for writing a new post. Luckily, I had a guest post in my back pocket.  This was originally written as a two-part rant on facebook.  When I saw it, I immediately messaged this outgoing gal to ask her if I could combine her rants into a full guest post for my blog.  She was happy to oblige, and I’m very grateful.  You see, my request could have been super awkward given that the following post about the disaster of online dating comes from my former sister-in-law.  Some marriages just don’t work out, and that’s no reason for us to stop enjoying one another’s brilliant wit and humor.  Maybe some worthwhile individual will enjoy her humor here and seek a connection; she sure as hell hasn’t had much luck so far.  So, without further ado, I now present an open letter to the men of online dating:

 

As a newly single woman, I have been encouraged to try online dating, or what I am now kindly referring to as "selling yourself to the lonely guy with a bad case of swamp ass.” I mean, seriously! Is there anybody comparatively normal out there?  If I have any hope of finding a possible relationship through this service, I need to make a few things clear.  It’s time to listen up guys; I’m talking to you.

Dear 58 year old Geriatric,

NO! Just NO! Don't you have some Depends to change? For the love, I’m 26 years old!

Dear Gamer,

Get your ass off the damn couch. Kindly clean the potato chip sludge off your Minecraft t-shirt and find some non-virtual friends.

Dear Felon,

I’m all about “seeing the light” too; I just don’t want it to be your taillights after you steal all my shit.

Dear guy who's tag line says "good guys finnish last", Maybe it's because you can't spell...that, or you're from Finland.Dear Guy whose tagline says “good guys finnish last,”

Maybe you’re finishing last because you can’t spell … that, or you’re from Finland.

Dear Guy who has a webcam followed by a winky face emoticon, 

You're not fooling anyone. Have fun with that carpal tunnel.

Dear 20 year old who's "ready to settle down,”

Go get yourself some ADHD meds. That oughtta settle you down. 

Dear Guy whose introductory tag line reads, “I like to wear cargo pants and shirts with funny sayings,”

Yeah, so does every other virgin.  Next. 

Dear Guy who is holding knives in his profile picture,

That image doesn’t scream “cool” like you had hoped.  It screams “serial killer.”

Dear Former SPED Student,

I’m going to let you down easy.  I know I said I’m a Special Education teacher in my profile, but after five, I wanna be off the clock.

Dear Guy that wishes I lived closer to Milwaukee because you don’t have a car because you “don’t see the need for buying one,”

I’m not buying your story.  TLC said it best, broke son. I don’t want no scrubs.

Dear Guy who doesn’t use a lick of punctuation,

Your letters of professed love are going to piss me off. It will never work.

Dear Guy that called me “thick,”

Is that really intended as a term of endearment? It just makes me want a cheeseburger. Stat.

Dear felon, I'm all about "seeing the light too", I just don't want it to be your tail lights after you kife all my shit.

Dear past special edu student, I'm going to let you down easy. I know I said I was a special edu teacher in my profile but, after 5 I want to be off the clock.

Dear guy that wishes I lived closer to Milwaukee cause you don't have a car because you don't see the need for one, Ain't buying it. You broke son. TLC said it best. I don't want no scrub.

Dear guy who doesn't use a lick of punctuation, Your letters of professed love are just going to piss me off. It'll never work.

Dear guy that calls me "thick", Is that really a term of endearment? Cause it just makes me want a cheeseburger. Stat.

Dear Match.com,

What is this? Craigslist for virgins and morons? I’m out.

With Love, Britt

 



Actual Dating Site Profile Picture.
You can't make this shit up.

Don't Forget to Take Your Medicine



These babies are totally adorable.

Hi, it’s me again, Angela's less talented, but helpful husband.  Don’t worry.  The kids are fine.  Angela just forgot to take her medicine this morning and is now dealing with withdrawals.  It is not quiet Trainspotting bad with babies crawling on the ceiling and constantly soiling one self.  It is more like the worse migraine with tremendous dizziness and aversion to light.  Needless to say, she is currently indisposed and holed up in our bedroom for the foreseeable future.   

 

So, what should I write about?  Since Angela often writes about our family life, I don’t think I have anything else to add.  Our kids are cuties and our dog is a piece of shit.  Enough said. Yeah, this shit really isn't as easy as my wife makes it look.

This dog is fucking stupid.

 

Angela Makes This Look Easy

Author's Precaution: This post is being written by a biology major.  The author respects your choice to avoid this post, but would encourage you to read and share as a means of ending the stigma and misunderstanding surrounding biology majors.  Thanks!

            I am here to announce that Angela will not be providing a post for today.  It is not due the fact that she has nothing to say.  Far from it.  It is just that our daughter needs extensive mommy time tonight and is running a pretty good fever.  I, her husband, will be filling in. Normally on days like this it is no big deal to not write a post, but since Angela is trying to complete the NaBloPoMo challenge she asked me to fill in for the day.  To those that are still reading, Thanks.      

            Sitting down at the computer tonight I don’t really know what to write about.  I am amazed by Angela and her ability to write tight entertaining posts that are funny and insightful without becoming rambling diatribes.  There seems to be many people out in the “blogosphere” that believe that everybody should hear what they have to say without having anything to say.

            So what do I have to say?  After surviving another week teaching science in a state juvenile corrections institution I have a lot to say, but I would like to stay positive so I will not talk about work.  Instead I will only say good stuff.  I love my wife and family.  Contrary to one of my wife’s recent posts my life doesn’t blow.  I think that my wife’s blog is great (not just more than adequate) and I am proud that she is brave enough to share herself, even though I know my mom is reading it.  That is about it for now.  Maybe next time I may be inspired to share some of my brilliant insights on today’s world or an amusing anecdote from my past but compared to Angela I am not very interesting and I would rather play with my son before he goes to bed.  In closing I just want to thank all of the people that read my wife’s blog.

 

Baby Jesus' Day Off

Well, it’s official: Wisconsin is closed today due to the weather.  This means that I have the day off of work.  Given that I have a day off, I thought it would be the perfect day to feature my first actual guest post (from a real human being – not something I created from my mom’s cat) about Baby Jesus’ day off.  As I hope you’re all aware, Baby Jesus has a pretty important day coming up next week (something about a birthday?).  Well, apparently, he needed some time away from all the stress of this holiday season too.  My dear, dear friend, Melissa, was happy to oblige and ensured that he recently had one hell of a time at Costco.  When I saw these pictures on her facebook feed, I begged her to write a guest post for this blog, and once again, she happily obliged.  She’s such a dear. 

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First of all, let me tell you everything Angela writes around here is true. Every frickin’ word of it. I’m one of those friends of hers that go way back. We have been best friends since we were ten and I taught her to swear.  I remember the boyfriend with the smiley face. I have sung karaoke with her. I went to that first courthouse wedding and made her a bouquet. I also remember driving home that night and saying to my husband, “She should have married that Sam guy.  He’s nice.” More recently, I watched safely from the security barrier while she gave DMX heck for using a derogatory word. I am her adorable daughter’s Godmother.  Now I am just bragging. Needless to say, we are Facebook friends so she can enjoy my cute kids and witty banter, and so I can follow her blog. That is where she saw Baby Jesus and his Costco high-jinks.

 

This might be a good place to mention that I am a Lutheran pastor.  This means that I am best buds with Jesus H Christ, and I also have some strong feelings about my Lord and Savior. I have an advanced degree to prove my ability to study everything about him, his dad and that awesome lady we call the Holy Spirit. It is from those many years of study that I have concluded that Jesus was not blonde haired, blue eyed, and fair skinned. Jesus was a brown kid. He probably had a little nappy head and some really deep chocolate eyes. When was the last time you saw Sweet Baby Jesus portrayed in this manner? I’m guessing never. In order to deal with my deep seeded rage over this racial injustice, I like to mess with little white baby Jesus. We won’t even get into how wrong it is when Baby Jesus shows up in the manger before December 24th. It’s called Advent people; look it up. It’s good for what ails you.

With all of this in mind I walked into Costco on November 19^th and it was like Christmas had puked all over the place.  In the mix was a sweet little crèche scene of Mary and Joseph gazing lovingly into the manger. There he was, in all his SPF 500 light skinned glory: Baby Jesus. He was appropriately dressed in a silver swaddling cloth, and wonderfully unattached. I expected Baby Jesus to be zip tied down to his sleeping quarters so that no one got sticky fingers and walked out with the Savior of the Universe. It was my lucky day.  I quickly decided that Baby Jesus needed to see a little more of this crazy town a la Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

 

 

Baby Jesus first needed what any good adventure needs: a good, fast, hot set of wheels.  One would think Baby Jesus might prefer a donkey or maybe in modernity something that resembles the Pope-mobile. I’m here to tell you Baby Jesus drives a royal blue mini-mini cooper. Just like he had a tendency to play fast and loose with Sabbath laws in his days on earth, he also tends to drive it like he stole it.  Baby Jesus speeds.

 

 

Baby Jesus also is a baller, though he wish he was a little bit taller. As he was cruising the aisles, he saw the awesome indoor bedroom/office basket ball hoop set up. He thought he could take on the big guys from accounting.  After a little trash talk and a few dirty thrown elbows, they had had enough. When Baby Jesus tapped into the power of his divinity to start hitting three pointers from half court, they were fed up. Prince of Peace notwithstanding, he ended up with his lily white diapered bottom in the net.

 

 

Not one to throw in the towel when the going gets tough, baby Jesus decided maybe round ball wasn’t his game. Don’t all men of a certain stature and age take up golf?  He decided to check out the high quality merchandise for a day of walking the links. Sadly, they did not have a set of clubs that met his height requirements, but he did get a really good look at the bags.

 

 

Then Baby Jesus got hungry and though he was raised in a strict kosher household, he has never been able to shake his love of bacon. He has to be very careful in his relationship with this tasty meat product though, because many people over the years have crossed the line and have begun to worship bacon as an idol. Few things anger his Big Daddy more than bacon worship.

 

 

On his way out of Costco, Baby Jesus stopped by to see his old friend Frosty. They pretty much share a birthday, and so they try to at least have a drink together every year. Baby Jesus was sad after dodging all the crazed shoppers and a little scared by the bastardization of his birthday. Dang, no one even offered him a present. As Frosty is known for, he scooped Baby Jesus up in his arms and cradled him. Eventually, Baby Jesus had to get Frosty to let him go because all that corncob pipe tobacco has really made him reek. Baby Jesus has a touch of the asthma and just can’t take all that smoke.  Nothing like getting lectured by the King of Kings over a little habit he picked up in the war.

 

 

So before Mary really started to miss him, I quietly tucked Baby Jesus under my arm and snuck back through the aisles. Upon spying his mom and stepdad staring down where they last put him I shrieked, “Mary, Mary; it’s okay! I found your son! He was wandering through the store!” I barely got a sideways glance from the other shoppers and I don’t know if a single employee even made eye contact with me or Baby Jesus.  It’s too bad really; he’s a serious party animal. Merry Christmas and God's Blessings.

Damn the Skank -- Damn Her!

This is my first official guest post.  This female has had a lot on her mind lately, and she’s become rather pissed off about a certain situation.  Therefore, I invited her to express herself on my blog.  Please enjoy. 

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So, that skank is still in the house.  That skinny ass bitch that was found by the dumpster behind a damn Dog N’ Suds now rules the fucking roost, and I am still out here in the cold.  This is bullshit – straight up bullshit.  Twelve years! Twelve years, I have been a loyal, hard-working friend to this family, and the kid brings that girl home one day – and voila – she is adorned with love and adoration while I continue to go unappreciated.  

I am good and I am kind.  I am a loving mother who still cares for her son, providing him food even though he ought to eat less.  The family calls him “Fat Bastard” although his proper name is Jasper.  I guess I never considered what assholes they could be until I became so insanely jealous of that little skank with her fluffy white fur and apparently heart-melting, gentle purr.

 

Me and my Son -- He's not even that Fat, Folks!

 

The poor dumb dog gets called “Lenny” when she’s done something especially foolish.  If you don’t understand that this is a Steinbeck allusion, you are clearly not well-read.  Hell, even I read Of Mice and Men, although I must admit that I thought it would be a guide book to improve my mice hunting skills, thus helping me to impress the humans and earn the respect I desperately yearn for.  Turns out it was really a tale of friendship, but a worthwhile read regardless.  

I bet the skank doesn’t understand why “Lenny” is intended as an insult for the dog.  That dog has been with the family longer than me, even, and she has to sleep in the garage.  The skank gets to sleep in the king size bed.  Bullshit – bullshit I tell you.  It is true the dog developed an incontinence problem about two years ago, so I suppose I understand why she sleeps in the garage.  She was made a nice raised bed by the man.  But me – no bed, no blanket, no tiny scrap of cloth even. 

 

That should be MY scratching post!

 

 

Look what they built for the skank though in the first month she was here.  I want a scratching post like that. Maybe if they built me something like that I wouldn’t scratch at the window screen while I stare inside with sad, desperate eyes.  Then I wouldn’t get yelled at for ruining things.  Ruining things! It’s a damn mesh window screen, which is easily replaceable.  Haven’t they considered how they might have ruined my life?  I’m not replaceable.  I am a precious being, and I should be in that king size bed too.

 

Cute? Cute my Ass! Get that skank out of the tree, and out of the house!!

 

 

I get yelled at when I even sneak in the door. And look! Look at this, would you?  That skank climbed right up into the Christmas tree and what did they do?   They smiled, laughed, took pictures, and said, “Oh, isn’t she so cute?  How adorable!”  I would have been called a brat.  Why, I recall last Christmas, pacing in front of the patio doors begging to be let in for just this one special day.  Angela saw me and said, “C’mon.  She’s a good girl.  Just let her in for today.  It’s Christmas.”  They denied her request.  The bastards.  And then this little skank gets giggles when she climbs in the tree and bats down ornaments?  Such injustice!  

Therefore, I declare a strike.  I will no longer proudly bring dead mice and chipmunks to the door, showing off my skills before feeding my son.  I am going to begin leaving lumps of my shit on the doormat.  How do you like that? Huh? Treat me like shit, and I will give you shit.  I, Coco, deserve that scratching post.  Bullshit, man, bullshit.  If I could, I would take that skanky little kitten right back to the dumpster where she belongs, and I would claim the bed which I rightfully deserve.

 

Enjoy the turds, you unfair fuckers!

 

Love, Coco