Okay, now I'm really having a nervous breakdown. On Saturday Mary calls me and says she went jogging at 7 am and at the corner of Tennesee and Prosser there was a dead, mutilated cat. It had its intestines wrapped around its neck and was laid out on a lawn. The Animal Regulation people show up and says it's the 4th mutilated cat they've found lately. The officer says that the way the bodies are found, it looks like a human is doing the damage but they are still investigating. (He said he thought it might be a cult doing it).The officer takes photos and Mary hears someone coming out of their house saying, "Where's the cat?" Ugh!!!!

I contacted the Westsider (that little newspaper) to prod them to cover this story. The reporter found out that there have actually been 5 cats found mutilated starting June 13th (Friday the 13th). Four were found in the 90025 and 90064 zip codes and one was in Crescent Heights. So, I've been keeping the cats in at night and changed my whole schedule. Milo used to spend all night outside, so the first couple of nights he meowed for hours. I don't think he'll be able to take being kept inside all the time. I'm in a state of perpetual anxiety. I'll probably have to go back on fucking Prozac.

I'm dying in this town!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I couldn't help myself. In light of the imminent conquest of the dollhouse, I have absconded with Doggie and we are blasting off to Kicksville, USA. (I left Edward-Dog behind in the hopes Doggie's absence won't be missed). Doggie is in good spirits and riding the ferris wheel on top of G-ma's barristers bookcase if you ever need him.

Things to be thankful for even though the world is falling apart:

1. People don't get heartworms.
2. The rat Inkblot brought in at 2:45 this morning was not alive.
3. Thai ice coffee exists

To Maggie

Let’s take some time
to revel in our dysfunction
Why not? It’s three in the morning,
The peacocks and mythical rabbits
have absolutely wandered across our doorstep
and made themselves at home,
Despite our misery and baseness
violas and alyssum have sprung up in the refuse,
byproducts of your pain machine

I love you, poor creature,
We have no one else cheering us on
Those that might have are dead or gave up
Our gifted friends are building boring gypsum
mountains of personal achievement
You have a gold vein in your crappy heap of dirt
Get it all -
You can even start writing in the middle of the goddamn notebook
You’re lucky that way