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Everything looks better sleeping on a couch

I’m on my couch/bed trying to think of a game plan for this thing called life that kills people. Picking up the pieces is a hard task and I reassure myself of my strong independent qualities. Or is it the Malibu? This drooling creatures wobbles into this space that for a few hours a night I claim as my own. He’s a bulldog. A gentle giant, and I loathe him. He drools on my bed as my sister encourages him and rewards him for salivation. Yes, dog, drool on my bed. Of course, it’s just water. A million thank yous!

And yes, I loathe you dog. Because in the pit of my stomach we both know his ranking is higher than mine. He just stares at me. I stare back. He has a bed, yet comes over and taunts me. His paw extends as he attempts to pet me. Face drooping, and a head bigger than the rest of his body, with teeth poking out from flaps of skin. This obviously has become the envy of my life. I refill my cup.

Despite living out of my suitcase, I managed to bring my cats because I am destined down the path of crazy cat lady. They hide all day from the immigration, and only come out to play when this creature sleeps. I don’t have one cat, no I have two, because my issues can only be solved by transferring love to little flea bags. They love and respect me though, as the fat man uses me as a ladder and the other sleeps on my face. Ah, love me, love me!

And here I am, wiith no more Malibu, no more pineapple and on an uneven surface with a hello kitty cover that barely covers my long limbs. On my back, with eyes open, staring at the many ‘Santas’ my mother sprinkled around the house. Each one getting more and more disturbing as time passes and I am certain that they have moved! A fat white man smiling everywhere sneaking into houses is of course loved by all.

The passing cars, the motor noise, the barking dogs, and occasional loud voices aren’t lulling me to sleep this time. What a shame.

But I’m not under a bridge. Or in the basement of my sister’s house with a single light bulb in a damp dark environment typing away on a typewriter before the clicking drives me insane, no not yet. I haven’t crossed that line yet and oh, it’s a thin, transparent line my friends.

A line where pets have more rights than homosexuals in love, a line where alcohol is needed more than water, and a line where you need an associate degree to flip a hamburger. Love you America.

What lines are you afraid to cross?

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