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11.14.2003 - 3:45 p.m.


The story about the cat.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Thud!

Rip. Rip. Rip. Thud!

(Myowwwwl. Mrow? Moww. Mreh.)

Rip. Rip. Rip. Thud!

The cat is climbing the screen outside the door leading outside from your bedroom. She climbs partway up, then detaches herself to drop back down onto the wooden deck.


Also, she is meowing.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Thud!

There is only this, the cat and the screen door and the noise and the fact that it's 4:15 in the morning.


The story about the tree.

There is a maple tree in their front yard, impressively tall and wide. It's actually three or four trees wound together, sharing branches and sprouting outwards and upwards.

The tree was a majestic green canopy in the summertime. They stood underneath it and hooded their eyes and talked about how big it was. It's big, she said. Too big, he replied. We should have it thinned out. I don't want it to hurt the tree, she said. Believe me, it won't, he told her.

Men came with chainsaws and climbed the tree. For half a morning they cut limbs and yelled back and forth to each other. They brought a dog with them, a pit bull named Boots. Afterward, the men drank beer before climbing in their pickups and hauling away all of the branches they took from the tree.

To her eyes, the tree looked about the same. He pointed out areas that he said were much better, and she nodded doubtfully.

It was November when most of the leaves started falling. It seemed to happen overnight - suddenly every surface of their lawn was covered in leaves, and they were starting to drift in rude piles into their neighbor's yard. She was driving home one day and as she pulled into the driveway she thought, I have to do something about this.

He was out of town on business. She thought grimly about his timing as she gazed out at their yard, then sighed. She went and got a rake.

It was a chilly day, but she soon stripped off her coat and was sweating in a sleeveless t-shirt. She worked on the leaves, corralling them. The afternoon passed by in this manner until it was almost too dark to see.

She wiped her brow, surveying her work. There were now several giant piles of leaves that had to be dealt with, but at least they weren't scattered far and wide anymore. She took a step backward to get a better view, and instead of encountering firm ground, she stepped into a heap of leaves that gave way beneath the ledge below them. She teetered for an instant, then fell.

Flat on her back, the rake draped across her, she stared up at the tree. She thought she could see, finally, where it had been thinned out. Over there on the left side, especially.


The story about the pants.

Man these pants suck. I mean, I get the whole "low ride" thing - it makes my ass look better, you can't argue about that. But do they have to be so fucking low half my belly is pooched out and is resting in my lap? My ass might look great but my shirts look like shit, since there's this rubbery bulge escaping above the waistline, which by the way is crawling rapidly down my hips as we speak. And when I sit down, forget it. God, I hate these fucking pants.

Get rid of them? Are you crazy? When I lose weight, these pants will rule.


The story about the bad poem.

Trapped, as I am, by society's unwritten rules
Yielding soft paw, it soothes me, it cools
But passion! flames raging! a burning hot fire
Black button-bright eyes, they fuel my desire

I am a well whose depths can't be known
Take not my plushie, get one of your own

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7 comments so far.

I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004

yay, diaryland