I lounge in my bedroom, my cat meows to be

I lounge in my bedroom, my cat meows to be let in. Five minutes later, she wants back out to use the litter box, and I must use the bathroom. I get a drink of water, so does she.

The narration of the shallow events of my life is so French and lazy that I stare at the books on my shelf with no desire to read them. The ghost of Andy Warhol slinked in

to my bed to take lewd pictures, how gauche. I remember I once caught him and Kerouac pissing on a tricycle, God knows they were ignorant little turds.

I, on the other hand, am in no way an ignorant turd. Unlike Kerouac I use punctuation, paragraphs and don't bang on and on in general about stuff. My vehicles are not urinated upon

, woman don't look like surrealist paintings, & I AM hung up on literary inhibitions and grammatical fears. I begin my stories at the start & end all my sentences with full stops.

"You need serious help," my therapist said, handing me a stick of Juicyfruit. "Just relax, Dude & you know, go with the flow." My therapist was good at helping me put things into

my mouth. After my latest bout of arachibutyrophobia, I refused to put anything in there. "Just chew the gum. That's right, chew," said my therapist without sounding too creepy or

or ... maybe I was laying it on a little thick. What if my love was like peanut butter stored in the fridge? And my therapist was like a knife that was too short

to trim the deckled edges of the book I like to call my life in a way that would not make it look even more deckled? The cat might have my tongue, but I can still type ...