Pets

I named my cat Walt.

Then, he pissed up my bedroom

when he smelled females. 

I am getting ready to move in a couple of weeks, and one of the sad steps in my preparation was to find my two spoiled cats a new home. My two male cats, Walt and Malcolm, have lived a life of cat luxury for the past year-- eating all day, sleeping in people-beds, lounging in the sun spot on the carpet, untying my shoestrings every morning. But that is all changing now. This weekend, I brought them to their new home at my parent's farm. They will now be living outside with three dogs.

Upon first arrival, however, I could not bear to leave them outside all night. So they came inside and met my parents' house-cat, a sassy female feline, and her litter of five kittens. This is where my two loving kitties got their first smell of a woman. Like the flip of a switch, they were turned from sweet, purring darlings to sex-crazed beasts! They forgot they were brothers and turned into mortal enemies. They hissed, growled, and scratched up my arm when I tried to hold them back. Finally, I got them wrangled up to my bedroom, away from the pheromone den that Cici-the-sex-cat had created downstairs. Walt, who loves to sit on my computer while I work on homework, then set up camp under my bed where he growled, hissed, and clawed at me every time I tried to coax him out.

I began to fear my darling kitties. I was afraid that if I let them out of my room, they would gobble up the desired female's young-ones and then, impregnate her again. Either that or they might fight each other to death in the night. So, I locked them up in my room where I could monitor their beastly behavior. And guess what... I woke up in the middle of the night to Walt humping Malcolm. Cute kitties.

So, I guess what I learned from this is that animals are still animals no matter how much we treat them like children. Either that, or Walt is more like his namesake, Walt Whitman, than I thought.

A Promise, kind of

I solemnly swear

I will tryta' do better

next time I mess up

In the "ABOUT ME" section of this blog, there is a published lie. Go ahead and read it: it says that I, "your haiku-ist in residence" will write a haiku every day. Now, anyone who knows about a calendar can tell that I am failing to deliver on that promise.

I am sure this is bugging me a lot more than it is bugging you, dear readers. But the guilt is eating away at me. I have been debating about whether I should change the "ABOUT ME" or just try to do what the "ABOUT ME" says I will do. What a ridiculous debate to be having, right? However, after both the prosecutor and the defense stated their cases, I have decided that I am just going to leave it. I need to keep myself in check.

As I am a shifty, often-lazy person, this does not mean I will actually really do what it says and write everyday, but it does mean that I will try. So, readers (do you exist??), you can expect more out of me, but you can also expect less. Whichever you prefer. 

The Line Up

In the second grade,

your spot in the recess line's

a status symbol

The adults at work can't help but laugh at the amount of kids who shed tears over their spot in line at school. 

But the kids take it very seriously. Cutting someone in line is as bad using YOUR tax dollars to buy THIER groceries to these kids. They worked hard for that spot in line, and now that kid (who didn't turn in their worksheet fast enough, didn't tuck their chair in fast enough, and didn't walk to the line fast enough) thinks he gets to be second-in-line. They won't even use that spot for any good. They will buy cigarettes with that spot instead of buying produce for their children with that spot in line. They will walk  slowly instead of hurrying the rest of the line toward the playground with that spot in line. That is just not fair. No hand-outs here. 

I guess I am not sure if we should laugh. We all act like kids sometimes. 

The Obvious Topic for the Day

An eye for an eye...

or all the eyes it takes to

get the eye we want. 

The death and celebration of the death of Osama Bin Laden has left me with thoughts that many people are probably thinking, but those aren't the people posting status after status on Facebook. 

Justice is an interesting thing. As if causing pain makes your own pain feel any better. As if a death really erases another death. As if killing one man really makes the children, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters miss there children, parents, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters any less. We can't take the eye we pluck from another and put it back in our own bleeding socket. So, what's the point in taking the eye in the first place?

I am not saying that Osama Bin Laden shouldn't have died. And I am not saying that I am not glad that I am an American. What I am saying is that Osama Bin Laden wasn't the cause terrorism. And until the world is rid of the despair, hopelessness, ignorance, and desperation that really causes terrorism, then no matter how many men, women, and children we kill, terrorism will still exist. 

Justice. That is what we are celebrating. That and politics and proven superiority.

But I don't feel any safer. And no wounds were healed. 

Food Chain

Kissing the asses

of those that kiss the asses

of those that kiss the...

I am sick of writing papers that I don't care about. I am tired of reading a text book when I would rather be reading a poem. I don't want to think about how I am going to afford an unpaid summer of teaching kids about creative writing. But I do want to teach kids about creative writing, so I guess I will just kiss a few asses to get there.