Saturday, December 11, 2010

I am crinkly wrappers.

"I dreamt of cats all over my room, pawing me lovingly, licking me with their rough tongues, tickling my nose with their whiskers. And then, all at once, with the sigh of a far-off symphony, they all dropped dead. I had to bury them all in Jackie’s backyard. She wasn’t home, so I borrowed her orange shovel and dug until there were blisters on my hands, and then dug some more until there was no skin left, just bleeding flesh, raw like a tongue. I dumped all the cats in the big hole, and covered it back up. Immediately, a garden of red roses grew over it, spiny vines tangling themselves above the dirt. It looked so dry. I watered them, but they never turned moist and healthy, so I left the hose on, and eventually, the dead cats floated to the surface. I was so afraid of Jackie, I ran home, leaving the cats floating, to rot under the rosebushes. Jackie called the police. They came and drove me to Jackie’s house, where I was told I had to collect seven cat ears, fry them in Tabasco, and consume them as punishment. As I pulled the rotting ears off, feeling the furry skin tear under my fingers in a disgusting sort of vibration, I woke up."

See, this is what I write.

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