(no subject)
I don't want to talk. I honestly don't really feel like writing either. But you see, I have to or else I might go a little mad. Just like the dog at the apartment I'm staying at. When the door closes he goes a little mad.
His owners are 3 sisters. Kat, Crystal and Krisy. They are all nurses in training and work very hard at their future which they hope wins them financial success. All three are expected to be nurses just like their mother who works so hard to support the family, the cars, the large houses, the shared apartment. Then there's me sleeping on the couch, eating now and again out of their fridge.
They don't eat all the food they buy. In fact, you could say they tend to waste a lot of food as it goes bad before they think to prepare it. That's my job as a silent partner to eat what I think they aren't noticing.
I'm not terribly friendly with any of them. I announce when I arrive, sometimes when I leave. I have a job that I hope wins me financial support enough to leave this goddamn nook of human civilization, southern California. I took a job in the armpit of Orange County for this purpose, not for the sights, artistic opportunity, or rich diverse culture. What I mean to say is, this apartment is a couch to me nothing more.
There's a computer here to stretch digital legs out on the world, ironically it makes me feel smaller and more cut off from anyone. My friends in LA are the some of the most wonderful people I've ever met, out of reach and romantically missed everyday I'm here. A sacrifice I made to get myself out of a bigger hole. You know what they say about the devil you know, I've got my devils on speed-dial.
I sit, stew, sleep, wait, eat and curse people then instantly regret it. A couch. That's what Orange County is to me.
The dog is a shaggy playful pup. People tend to take to him pretty easily but, they would probably have more reservations about letting him lick their hands if they knew he eats his own shit regularly. The dog has gotten no training on account of the owners' schedules and the fact they simply don't care. The worst type of pet owners buy pets and love owning them, decent pet owners just love their pets. Ownership somehow got imbedded in a receipt. A frightening notion not just to me but to the dog as well.
Lately the dog yelps and whines and waits for someone to pay attention to it only to yelp and whine louder. I am not a dog person and it took me a long time to warm up to such a disgusting and cute mutt. It's chewed some of my wires as well as made some scarves as fragrant as a toilet bowl with it's slobber. One day I realized he's the only friend I really have here, our connection was out of necessity. I learned to run the yelps and whines out of him, eventually he'll get too tired I thought. I found myself smiling and enjoying this exercise incrementally more day by day.
But now it's a little different. Now the dog goes a little bit mad. The door for the dog is a sign of company. It's opening and closing are rare moments that invite something in to it's rather lonely and quiet existence. Closing an animal with that much life and vitality into a two-bedroom two-bath borders on cruelty. The dog doesn't respond to games, it doesn't quiet with attention. It barks, yelps, and simply screams. It cries.
I've said some things to this dog I will never repeat to anyone, comforting things. Things you tell people over their head in dark thoughts. Holding him tight, telling him I don't know how to help but I will do what I can do. It occurred to me that maybe one solution would be the ultimate one, the final one. But I simply don't have it in me to kill the dog, even though I would consider it a mercy killing.
No, I've disguised our company as a way to pass the time but I don't think the dog knows that I'm going a little mad myself. But I don't yelp nearly as loud as he does, in fact I've gotten quiet good at not even realizing how unhappy I am until I'm just about ready to burst. The sight of that dog, the thought of it's entrapment, and the horror that's encrypted in those primal cries are too familiar, too relatable to pretend that I don't understand. To call him a stupid dog.
I've got five more months. My dollars are as counted down as my youth. I feel like the banks hunting me down are as tenacious as the years that go by. If happiness is really what I'm looking for, why would I let myself wander in such a dark terrain? If I have so much faith in my friends, why am I so concerned with being left behind and forgotten? If I have so much conviction, why do I try so hard hard to ignore this dog?
We both go a little mad when the door closes.
His owners are 3 sisters. Kat, Crystal and Krisy. They are all nurses in training and work very hard at their future which they hope wins them financial success. All three are expected to be nurses just like their mother who works so hard to support the family, the cars, the large houses, the shared apartment. Then there's me sleeping on the couch, eating now and again out of their fridge.
They don't eat all the food they buy. In fact, you could say they tend to waste a lot of food as it goes bad before they think to prepare it. That's my job as a silent partner to eat what I think they aren't noticing.
I'm not terribly friendly with any of them. I announce when I arrive, sometimes when I leave. I have a job that I hope wins me financial support enough to leave this goddamn nook of human civilization, southern California. I took a job in the armpit of Orange County for this purpose, not for the sights, artistic opportunity, or rich diverse culture. What I mean to say is, this apartment is a couch to me nothing more.
There's a computer here to stretch digital legs out on the world, ironically it makes me feel smaller and more cut off from anyone. My friends in LA are the some of the most wonderful people I've ever met, out of reach and romantically missed everyday I'm here. A sacrifice I made to get myself out of a bigger hole. You know what they say about the devil you know, I've got my devils on speed-dial.
I sit, stew, sleep, wait, eat and curse people then instantly regret it. A couch. That's what Orange County is to me.
The dog is a shaggy playful pup. People tend to take to him pretty easily but, they would probably have more reservations about letting him lick their hands if they knew he eats his own shit regularly. The dog has gotten no training on account of the owners' schedules and the fact they simply don't care. The worst type of pet owners buy pets and love owning them, decent pet owners just love their pets. Ownership somehow got imbedded in a receipt. A frightening notion not just to me but to the dog as well.
Lately the dog yelps and whines and waits for someone to pay attention to it only to yelp and whine louder. I am not a dog person and it took me a long time to warm up to such a disgusting and cute mutt. It's chewed some of my wires as well as made some scarves as fragrant as a toilet bowl with it's slobber. One day I realized he's the only friend I really have here, our connection was out of necessity. I learned to run the yelps and whines out of him, eventually he'll get too tired I thought. I found myself smiling and enjoying this exercise incrementally more day by day.
But now it's a little different. Now the dog goes a little bit mad. The door for the dog is a sign of company. It's opening and closing are rare moments that invite something in to it's rather lonely and quiet existence. Closing an animal with that much life and vitality into a two-bedroom two-bath borders on cruelty. The dog doesn't respond to games, it doesn't quiet with attention. It barks, yelps, and simply screams. It cries.
I've said some things to this dog I will never repeat to anyone, comforting things. Things you tell people over their head in dark thoughts. Holding him tight, telling him I don't know how to help but I will do what I can do. It occurred to me that maybe one solution would be the ultimate one, the final one. But I simply don't have it in me to kill the dog, even though I would consider it a mercy killing.
No, I've disguised our company as a way to pass the time but I don't think the dog knows that I'm going a little mad myself. But I don't yelp nearly as loud as he does, in fact I've gotten quiet good at not even realizing how unhappy I am until I'm just about ready to burst. The sight of that dog, the thought of it's entrapment, and the horror that's encrypted in those primal cries are too familiar, too relatable to pretend that I don't understand. To call him a stupid dog.
I've got five more months. My dollars are as counted down as my youth. I feel like the banks hunting me down are as tenacious as the years that go by. If happiness is really what I'm looking for, why would I let myself wander in such a dark terrain? If I have so much faith in my friends, why am I so concerned with being left behind and forgotten? If I have so much conviction, why do I try so hard hard to ignore this dog?
We both go a little mad when the door closes.