metanoia's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Where's Peetie? And other lies... So many things I think of to write about only to have them disappear like so much angel dust. Good thoughts, too - complete and colorful with clever, insightful tidbits. I don�t write them down or anything, because I believe the thought is so perfect I will surely remember it. Not. Sometimes these perfect thoughts will come to me in that half-dreamlike state just before going to sleep or just upon waking. I have tried to write these down a few times, only to look at them later and not be able to decipher the raucous scribbling. It looked as though a rabid dog took pen to mouth and had a go of it. In other words, illegible garbage is what I got for my tremendous effort of writing while half-asleep. Whatever part of it was legible, if any, was unintelligible, causing me to say to myself, �What the hell was that all about?� I bring this up only because I had one of those perfect thoughts yesterday driving in to work. I often have these great ideas and thoughts during the drive, but when I get to my destination matters of the immediate take precedence and my lovely, perfect ideas are gone into the atmospheric continuum. Or, perhaps, they go up my ass. Wherever they go, it is somewhere I can not (or will not in re: ass) follow to retrieve them I had a dog named Peetie when I was a child. He was black and more than likely part Labrador retriever. I loved that dog a lot. He was a barker, though - a barker and a getter-outer, runner-awayer. This was not a fun thing for my parents to deal with, as living in South Central Los Angeles (it was bad then, but not as bad as now) the neighbors did not take kindly to a dog that was always barking and getting out. My cousin has a ranch in northern California. On day Peetie was gone. I asked, �Where�s Peetie?� My mother told me Peetie was getting out so often that they sent him to live with my cousin on his ranch. She said Peetie would be able to run all he wanted and play with the other dogs my cousin had. The sting of missing Peetie was assuaged by the fact that he was going to have a great place to live, not just a tiny fenced yard. Yay for Peetie, running and playing all he wanted with no fences. A year or so later, when I visited my cousin I asked about Peetie. He looked confused and said, �Who?� �My dog�, I said, �The one mom sent up here to live with you.� He didn�t answer. Later, he told me that Peetie had run away. Looking back I believe it was all a lie � a conspiracy. The fuckers took Peetie to the pound and lied to my little candy ass! Mutherfuckers. Mutherfuckenmutherfuckers. Bastards! Pussys! This brings up other interesting memories. Like all the live bunnies I got for Easter mysteriously running away; and the ducks running away as well. See a pattern here? I do. My fathers favorite meal was � get this � fried rabbit. Yup. Fried. Rabbit. We would have it from time to time. I do not remember if the times we had it coincided with the times my bunnies ran away, but I would probably bet at least 5 bucks that it did. Fucker. Mother. Fuckers. My father grew up on a farm and farmed for a good part of his life so it was no thing at all to kill some animal and eat it. I will always remember with horror him wringing the neck of a chicken in our back yard. This was in LA, folks. L fuckin A. Man, this is all flooding back now. Was my family so afraid of my wrath as a child that they resorted to lying to me at every turn? No wonder I am so cynical. It was all lies! Gah. My childhood is a litany of lies. It�s a wonder I can function at all. No wonder I was all fucked up in the head for so long (although I thought I was perfectly fine � just like now!). I do really think I�m fine now. Pretty damn good, actually, although I always thought that�. heh 4:39 p.m. - 2003-11-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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