Yesterday, I saw a picture of a cat eating spaghetti and I laughed even harder than I do at comic sans.

This is just another sign of my increasingly-worse mental state.

I think I will see a doctor, and take them on a magical unicorn ride with me

and have a picnic under a willow tree

and when we’re there we can whisper each other our secrets like pre-adolescent girls

we will eat ice cream together and watch the sunset

~~La Stranezza


The Absence of Things

This is a story about cookies. That’s all you’re getting out of me. Enjoy. 

A woman, devoid of clothing, stepped onto the hard parquet of her solitary apartment and craved one last cigarette before turning in for the night. But she was out, and it was dark and cold and she was still without clothing and to walk to the convenience store at that hour of the night would be nothing less than suicide. So she sustained herself on a memory of repugnant fumes, known to stop her lungs but what did her lungs ever do for her anyway? Her lungs did not pay the rent, long overdue, and they did not pay for the hypoallergenic body wash she had to use or the so-called meat defrosting in the kitchen sink. She did not think my lungs pay for the fumes I inhale every day and slowly kill myself on. She did not think like that. She thought that you did things to things and things did not do things in return. Often she had seen a morality play of cigarettes and liquor but never had she been struck by one. Her soul was yet unvarnished by the thing called a conscience.

Not to say she lacked one, of course, but to say that she did not use one when it came to her consumption of cigarettes; or, anything else for that matter, it is well to note as she shuffled the porcelain cat on her hallway desk and from within withdrew a vial of whiskey. She made a pretense of hiding it, even though there was no one there—ever—to say to her, well, Sally, you shouldn’t be drinking that, you’ve been in AA for four years and oh my we all fear for you and we just want you to be happy but this isn’t being happy this is destroying yourself why oh why must you be a slave to your drives you know the doctors, all the fancy doctors with the fancy hats and degrees, they say—

She didn’t care what they said. The oblivion of the sweet brown amber filled her with the poison of indifference. She walked from the hallway to the living room with that indifference, with the firm intention of going to her room and putting on her pajamas and from there letting sleep take her away. To get to her room she had to pass by the couch, the green couch, the ugliest couch in the world, the couch where her first child was to be born if not the vagaries of fate had replaced it with a calico cat instead. The calico cat sat upright and dignified, staring at Anderson Cooper’s magnificent eyes. The cat seemed to achieve an almost sexual pleasure from viewing the screen, an enjoyment much unlike Sally’s own. The oblivion of sweet brown poison filled her with the amber of indifference. She did not feel much pleasure anymore, only numbness. Numbness for her was a type of pleasure. It was being able to ram a fork into her hand and remove it without any pain and watch as the blood ran off and with it a miniscule serving of her loneliness—but every little bit helped. The little bits were what kept her sane.

“What you doing? Enjoying Anderson Cooper, are we?” she asked the cat, not expecting it to answer. And it didn’t. But a second later it turned and said to her, “I’m hungry. Will you get me some cookies? I left them on the counter.” Her cat had never spoken to her before. First she thought of the whiskey, that perhaps she had drank too much and that she was slowly losing her mind—it would not have been the first time—and she dismissed that idea almost as soon as it had come along and she replaced it with the idea that she herself was sick and tired and hungry and cats can’t talk and on top of that what sort of cat needs a cookie?

“Excuse me?” she asked, wondering aloud more to herself than to the thing. The cat repeated itself and stared her down. She did not know what to do. She thought momentarily of calling her mother on her outdated cellphone (her landline had long since been cut off) but she thought better of it, because that had not been her first swig of the drink that evening nor would it be her last and she had already started slurring and she did not want her poor mother to hear her, nor did she want to hear the heartbreak in her poor mother’s voice. So she did not call, and instead walked away from the nightmare-inducer and found herself in the shabby kitchen of her shabby apartment in the shabbiest complex in town. The only good thing about the room was that it had a window, and the window lit up like an altar the tiny amount of counter-space she had. On this altar of food there was the most delectable plate of chocolate-chip cookies she had ever seen, beckoning to her with their aroma. She knew they were the cat’s and that the cat might strike her down if she ate one but she could not help it—the oblivion of the sweet brown amber filled her with the poison of indifference. She no longer gave a damn if the cat did anything to her. She just wanted a cookie. The craving filled her and made her ache to her bones. Her stomach was wet with anticipation. She looked around first to see and make sure no one was there to judge her, and she began to pick it up.

She was stopped by the paralyzing sound of sirens outside. Somewhere something had happened. She moved to the window and turned her back momentarily to the cookies. She peeked through the blinds and saw in the icy evening the taillights of a red and white ambulance whizzing by, the universal noise of the klaxon buzzing in the background. She could not definitively say what had happened, but she sensed a dark change in the fabric of reality; and as she spun around her intuition was confirmed by the absence of her one true love. The cookies had vanished. She was lost.

~~La Stranezza

Thanks to Gabi, Kade, and Kacy (who is brand new to the blogging world and needs as much love as possible) for reviewing my story for me so I didn’t end up sharing it with the world and then realising it sucked. Because that, in itself, would suck. 

The Third Taco

I don’t know if you know this, but I do, and this is it: When the run of a show starts, no matter what you’re doing–you can have a tiny ensemble part, you can have the lead, you can be the guy who dusts the hats, your life automatically ends. You have time to sleep and defecate, and that’s about it; but what with the sheer exhaustion of performance and the fact that you don’t get home until 11:00 most nights, if not later, the resemblance of a schedule is thrown to the wind. You eat when you have time, and aren’t passed out on your grandma’s couch, and pray to your own personal god (or cat–there’s no judgement here) that you don’t get sick. Getting sick during the run of a show is the worst thing ever. It’s like having to drink cabbage juice and person urine out of an exceptionally long and phallic straw.

With this in mind: Yesterday I ate two tacos for dinner and then went to the theatre to get ready. I brought a third taco with me, because I have a ginormous stomach and I thought, heck, if I get hungry, I don’t want to have to run to the corner store during intermission and grab a bite to eat. So I put the taco in the fridge and went off to do my stagehanderly duties. I made it through the first  act all right, but by intermission I was starving, so I did what any rational human being would do and got out my delicious taco.

We started act two, and within thirty minutes I felt like garbage. I could barely move because I was being stupid, because everyone knows you should never eat the third taco. Eating the third taco is the gastrointestinal equivalent of shooting yourself in the leg. Just say no. 

~~La Stranezza

Be A Dog

It seems like everywhere you go in the land of fictional, there’s always this one paradigm you can’t avoid: Cats are evil, dogs are good–with the former sometimes being so evil as to plot world domination. In theory, this is highly amusing; in practice, as in real life, it makes no sense.

Firstly, this paradigm implicitly argues that animals have souls. I don’t think this is true–and if it is true, then there should at least be a corollary which states that only non-tasty animals have souls.

Secondly, cats are too damn lazy to be evil. At their very best, cats are chaotic neutral–they just want to be left alone so they can get high on catnip and shag. Their philosophy of life is basically this: “Human beings exist to feed us and change the channel whenever QI comes on”–because, as everybody knows, cats love Stephen Fry. This is one of the mysteries of the universe.–“It is in our best interest not to try to overthrow them, because if we did then we’d have to do all the work.”

Dogs, on the other hand, are not lazy. They love people, and probably would do most anything to keep their owners safe–most of them at the very least–which opens up the possibility of an I, Robot scenario (sadly, I am referring to the2004 film and not the original novel which was a kajillion times better) in which dogs enslave the human race in order to protect us from ourselves. Their philosophy of life is this: “Must protect master from harm! *Attempts to bite bumper of 18-wheeler*”

So, dogs, even though they are in essence “more good” than cats, are also more likely take over the world because the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and tasty tasty roadkill.

~~La Stranezza

Þe Olde Cat Flap

Once upon a time in the far-away-but-actually-rather-nearby land on “England” (which may or may not actually exist…Our highly-trained team of reporter monkeys are working on this), Isaac Newton had a cat.

Yeah, I know, it’s weird, right? I don’t really see Newton as a cat person..Maybe a parakeet person, but not a cat person. I think it’s something to do with that crazy hairstyle of his. Well, that, and also because he worked on optics. I mean, a cat would be very counter-productive in that particular endeavour…

Anyways, Isaac Newton had this cat, right? Well, the cat had babies, because that’s one of the things that cats do.

So Newton gets this crazy idea…He’s going to cut two different holes in his door so that the cat can get in the big hole and the little kittens can get in through the slightly smaller hole, not realising that the kitten will follow their mother through the big hole.

Newton realises his incredibly stupid mistake, does Þe olde facepalm, and has really crazy hair.

And that, my dear friends, is how the cat flap was invented, minus the facepalm part, because Isaac Newton was morally opposed to the facepalm. He actually wrote a treatise on his hatred of the facepalm entitled, “The Negative Effects of the Palm Upon the Face When Placed on it in a Decidedly Upwards Fashion,” published in 1695 in Hanover by his sworn enemy, Gottfried Leibniz. It was actually one of the few things that Newton and Leibniz didn’t completely disagree upon.

The end.

~~La Stranezza