Archive for March, 2014

I haven’t had anything to write about.  So I spent the last week pretending I was Gilbert for a few seconds at the end of each day.  This has nothing to do with running, animal welfare, comic books, music or anything else that I normally give a shit about in life.  Blame the cat.


Dear Diary.  By Gilbert.


I looked into my food dish this morning, the clanky aluminum giver of life, and noticed that in the center, through the mountain of grain-free kibble, I could see a speck of silver.  I was at once thrust into a downward spiral of emotions that ended with the terrifying realization that this would in fact be the last food I would ever be served.   So I slouched for a moment, looked over at the food guy, as he lay half awake staring through a beam of sunlight with a single half open eye, and I yelled as loud as I could.  I noticed the unopened bag of catfood sitting several feet away, but concluded with swiftness that it was not for me nor my brother or sister.  I looked in the large covered container next to my barren aluminum dish and noticed that it too was so full that it almost could not be closed.  This food was surely for someone else.  I yelled for another minute or so, at the food guy.  His slumber was disrupted and he arose to feed me.  He didn’t feed me.  I’m starting a diary in which to write my thoughts.   Welcome to the famine.


There was food in my dish again this morning.  Things don’t seem so bad sometimes.  I’ve decided to be positive.  People do this all the time.  Bipolar shit.  Woe is me- three minutes later- KICKING TODAYS ASS!!!!  I’m not gonna be like that, but when I grow up, I’ve decided that I’m going to have a dream.  Or a goal.  I don’t really know much of what it will be at this point.  But ambition is essential for things.  Going back to sleep.  Write more tomorrow


Why does the door only open for tall people?  Why does it only open one way?   It’s fucking cold out.  Can’t a cat go outside to piss in the neighbor’s bush without being stranded in fucking Siberia for six hours?  And where does the food guy always go?  I know he doesn’t have a job.  Perhaps if he gained a little weight and ate a little more and slept for 23 hours a day he would know why I get so irritated about being stuck outside.


I had to leave the bedroom today.   Tony ate all the food in my dish.  I hate him sometimes.  By the time I got downstairs, I found Olivia, at the food dish by the sink, stuffing her fat face.  What does she even do around here?  All I ever see is her jumping down from her fridge-top penthouse, eating and jumping back up to her fridge-top penthouse.  From time to time she plays piano for a second, or smashes something important.  But seriously.  I went up there once too.  Biggest mistake of my life.  Look at this shit.  You ever drop 25 lbs of muscle off a building before?


The guy with the food has been cleaning all morning.  Some people from back home are coming here.  He keeps turning that vile beast on.  The vacuum.  I hate it.  We all hate it.  Even Manny was getting pissed off about it today and pounced it.  The counters smell like shit.  Like lemony fresh shit.  And he burnt one of those scented burning sticks that smells fucking terrible.  He’s sabotaging our hard work in the litter box.  It’s like he doesn’t get the hint.  If I wanted my shit buried, I would bury my shit.  I hope these people don’t try to sleep near me.  Fatty’s gotta stretch out n shit.  Going back to sleep.  Life is pain.


Tony is a piece of shit.


When the food guy came back today he was hobbled.  I think he hurt his leg again.  That’s what he gets for trying to do stuff.  I tell him sometimes, “why the hell do you wanna be fast?  That shit takes work.”  He doesn’t listen to me though.  Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t hear me.  He just stares at me and says “Gil, why are you always staring at me with your mouth hanging open? You look like a creep.”  Jokes on him.  Have fun in expanding, you skinny little bastard.


My beard looks good today.  I wish the mirror was still next to the bed though.  Walking across the room to check myself out is a drag.  Energy expenditure 1, Gibert 0.  I think tomorrow I will go outside for a bit and see if any of the strays will talk to me yet.  Their lack of domestication is confusing.  The grey one won’t even look at me.  Who does that?  Is it because I’m too fat?  Because I come from money?  Zzzzzz


I miss my mom.  So does the guy with the food.  At night he tells me that we’ll all be together again soon.  And it will last forever this time.  He goes on about me having a stoop to sit on and drink.  And do hoodrat things.  It’s in some place called Sweeden.


What the fuck is a Ukraine?  All it seems like to me is a bunch of people that forgot to sleep for 23 hours a day.  The food guy is looking at all these pictures of people throwing rocks at people with shields.  It looks like fucking 300 over there but without the abs.  I like this Putin guy though.  He seems like the kind of guy I’d share a bowl of food with.  Powerful chest.  Rides a horse. Everyone’s all like ‘Putin made Obama his bitch by invading Ukraine.’  and I’m just sitting here like what is this Rocky IV? sup vlad, lets get swole, gas some hippies and take a nap til April or May.


Finally went back outside.  It’s fucking hot out.  I can’t win in this hell.  Tried to go back under the porch to kill things and the ground was soft.  I’m not entirely sure what I did to deserve this, but something has to change.  It’s just not right.  Did I mention the brown shit in my fur?  Wet dirt?  What the hell.  I determined that comic books are not comfortable to sleep on.  They dispense no warmth.   Sleeping on a laptop is better in every way.  Sometimes,  don’t tell anyone this cuz it seems weird,  but sometimes I like to just sit on it and let it warm my butt.  The food guy looks at me weird because for some reason he doesn’t appreciate buttholes the way that things with four legs do, but he’s not about to find me giving any fucks.  Not today.