Thursday, February 03, 2005

The Queen of Spleen

I dreamed about my new apartment for the first time. I've been here for about a month. I guess that's how long it takes for new digs to work their way into my subconscious lexicon-o'-meaninglessness.
I was in my apartment and I saw my cat — an ornery, sixteen-year-old calico who's lived her whole life at our house and has seen two dogs die and a third one arrive and I swear she's plotting how to get ride of him. In the dream, I only saw her for a second before she slipped behind the sofa. I reached down to pick her up and I realized it wasn't my cat, but a smaller orange one that seemed pretty pissed at me.

This mystery cat bit me and clawed me and I tried to put it down but it only spun around on my arm, an oversized bracelet of furry, blurry fury — like how you'd picture an angry cat attacking someone's arm in a cartoon. I asked the roommates for help, but then the cat started speaking in a little girl's voice. The cat told me it hated me and that I should leave.

My leg started to hurt too now. I looked down. A thorny rose stem was growing out both sides of my ankle.
I'm awake now and scratch-free. It's another beautiful day in this postcard town, but I'm stuck writing a paper on "The Rape of the Lock," which turned out to be about a chick getting her hair stolen and not, as I had hoped, about a guy picking a padlock open with his dick.

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