Haven’t slept well. The god damn fleas are killing me. Have to do work to take care if it. Fine. This is an opportunity. Clean the house. Take care of yourself– no. Fuck this, fuck all of this, fuck the Earth. We need more terrorism, more war. More Nazis, more racism, more mass rapes, more child slavery. More school shootings more North Korean nukes. Can something fucking good happen today please. It won’t. You have to make your own luck. What a pain in the ass.
My cat died. His fleas have had ten generations to develop into fiends that crave human flesh. Crawl under the blankets half dead at night and there’s tickling in my leg hairs. Look under the sheets with my iPhone flashlight. Dozens of them feasting on the fat blue veins snaking around my ankle bones.
I looked them up. They’re hard to kill. Why is every other organism so superior. I could die from tripping on a tree root. Fleas can lay dormant for 50 years. They wake up, fuck once, impregnate a flea woman with 1,000 more fleas. Fleas can jump the equivalent of 300 yards. Fleas’ exoskeletons, like 3 inch steel plate. Fleas have 9 inch cocks. They turn into men at night and ruin your girl’s pussy. Fleas have small noses and 10,000 Tinder matches. Fleas all have book deals. 30,000 twitter followers. Fleas are luminaries in “alt” literary movements and have appeared in the New Yorker. Fleas sit in back of your AA meeting with the one hot girl you spotted three weeks ago and thought you had a shot with. The only sober Asian under 30. The flea looks like John F. Kennedy and you’re an uglier James Cromwell. Fleas have bought and held Vangaurd ETFs since age 25 and have no terror of retirement. Fleas flirt with the barista effortlessly and she makes an effort back and forgets the 1,000 scintillating times you ordered cocoa. Fleas can squat past parallel without their leg bones creaking like they’re about to have Joe Theisman’s compound fracture. Which was from a flea flicker.
They get on my computer at night. Leave nasty Amazon reviews. Comments on my web site. Punch up your writing more, they tell me. Listen faggot– you go write some shit. You could practice for a thousand years and never approach what I pull out of my ass. From now on one comment is allowed: I’m a woman, fuck me. I look forward to your feedback.
Where the fuck are my spiders now. My cereal box is full of silverfish. Back of the toilet aswarm with house centipedes. They do jack shit. They don’t eat a single flea. Just their own mates and young. My predatory arthropods: fucking bums. Like having a lion infestation, still being constantly gored by wildebeest.