I Would Have Named Her Monica
An old black man stops me as I'm walking into the DMV -- he's got the tiniest wisp of a little grey kitten with crusty blue eyes. It had crawled into his car engine to keep warm, barely made it out alive. He tells me "this little one is a survivor." Could I please take it home with me? He doesn't want to abandon it, and I look like such a nice girl.
But I remember Haley at home, who's pulled all the hair out of her hindquarters and underside. I'm barely taking care of her at the moment.
I barely made it into the dmv without turning around and clasping the Little Survivor to my chest, taking her home where she'll be loved and cared for.
Filled out forms, checked the Organ Donor box, the Democratic Party. No, I don't want to be a poll worker, thankyou. Took my little ID picture, the girl at the counter asks, "Did anyone ever tell you you're the spitting image of Monica Lewinksy?" Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I look like a Presidential Cocksucker. A fat one. Hey, thanks, friend. Gimme my fucking ID, I'm gonna see if I can catch that man with the cat.
But I remember Haley at home, who's pulled all the hair out of her hindquarters and underside. I'm barely taking care of her at the moment.
I barely made it into the dmv without turning around and clasping the Little Survivor to my chest, taking her home where she'll be loved and cared for.
Filled out forms, checked the Organ Donor box, the Democratic Party. No, I don't want to be a poll worker, thankyou. Took my little ID picture, the girl at the counter asks, "Did anyone ever tell you you're the spitting image of Monica Lewinksy?" Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I look like a Presidential Cocksucker. A fat one. Hey, thanks, friend. Gimme my fucking ID, I'm gonna see if I can catch that man with the cat.