Poor, poor suicidal kitty. Why are you all alone in my parent's bedroom? Why don't you ever come out to play? Don't you know that I love you? I just called to say that I do, I do. Poor suicidal kitty cat. Remember that time when you jumped off the dining room table - during Shabbat, mind you - and flung your head into the window even though it was nighttime and there were no birds visible? You made us all scream, especially my mom. I love you but you always look distracted by something. A bad thought? I just want to hold you and nurse you like a child. Why did you ruin all our furniture? Why do you keep vomiting on our couch? Poor suicidal kitty cat...for some reason I don't feel like writing to anyone but you. Maybe that's because my friends don't want me to talk about them on a blog and I haven't figured out how to write fiction.
2 comments:
hahahaha brilliant! you can use my life for blog fodder...though i can't guarantee anything entertaining will happen to me. which sucks, because i haven't figured out how to write fiction either.
Fiction is just real life with better names, Chip Kidd front covers and conveniently placed plot contrivances. Don't let it get you down. If Ethan Hawke can do it...
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