Catistentialism is nothing more than their attempt to ruin a coherent couch, as mine is now littered with hair, hair balls, passive aggressive affection, and evil looks. Man plunges into the couch next to cat, and into despair. To have a cat fight catistentially, which is talking at one’s mirror regarding a neglected litter box, is not to use the word in its original sense. To show that God doesn’t exist may be to show that each unique defecus combed and mined from a litter box does, each piece’s existence preceding its essence. Now that we believe God doesn’t exist, we are assured that our despair can only be mitigated by feeling hairs which have yet to be collected into a hair ball by a brash milk lapping tongue, asexual at best, whose host’s eyes see straighter than the author’s.
Here I am alone again…well, there is my newly sleepy tabby but still…poor Madame Paillart must be wondering where her feline companion is, her wretched face as cavernous as a dried cranberry or walnut. I wish the storm would make even more of a clatter…the rain on my roof as falling teeth from a thousand old men…I don’t know how to write anymore…everyone is so far away .
I will name her Cousin, after Aunt Villvard’s first miscarriage…that will teach the woman to try to Parkour in her third trimester…oh, but I am a mean little scum face. That is why I hold Cousin harder than any human, for she is without judgement…her brain is the size of a small strawberry, fermenting into a wine I would only drink were it a sunny day…but those days there are none, so I will not worry…
Advocates of cats screamed with joy, who blew and were blown away by meows, them catnip soldiers, caresses on table leg and shinned love, who cried in the morning with bird heads in their garden mouth, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle out the wounds and sobs of the decapitated, behind my legal blindness and adore of body odor, my loveboys and shrews of fate the one eyed dong of the heterosexual dollar winking Washington to buy some bandaids for my back, her claws in them, through the shirt, the sweat, the crimson threads of their mark along my spine! I am used to this position, and love when painful is plentiful! Gayness!
My cat sings out, making an ominous sound, a sound akin to stomachs and kids, flits about. It has had a bad night, sits up blinking and purring. Oh what was that word that ran through my brain all night, that idiotic word that, hard as I’d try to pun it down, was always just an inch or two out of my grasp — a word which, by association, brought into play an incongruous mass and magma of nouns, idioms, slogans and sayings, a confusing amorphous word. Htmlgiant. That is the word, thankfully it don’t contain that letter, oops, just fucked up. Oh well, my career is over. People, people, help meeeeeeeeeee.