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Night Coffee

Our compromise is a late night coffee with fake sugar in it. It’s absolutely not pie. We got the garbage out while we were brewing a fresh half pot. Apparently, being in the hospital is an excuse to not do the garbage. He did it last time he got out of the hospital the same week, but this week? When he actually looks decent? No dice.

I suppose I should take it easy on him and say he’s an old man. I say he should just die and make way for a new regime: mine. God’s. I’ve been waiting forever for these two douche bags to admit that her way is the better way, but they’re stubborn to the core. To admit the daughter they tried to murder has worth — note that she’s the only person who is here, taking them to appointments and fetching sundries from the shops — is to admit their pride led them astray.

We only took out the refuse so we can end the plague of flies. There are over 100 dead flies on her window sill. I keep them there to keep count, you see. Of how many flies we murder in vain. The old woman lets in flies every time she checks the mail. The other reason we leave the corpses is to feed the ant colony that comes inside for food. We ❤ George.

“Like the Rain” by Clint Black

We are not huge on country music, but this one… Mmm. 🙂

At any rate, we seek the key to improving our cellular health. She’s flagging on me, ladies and gents. We’re losing ground instead of gaining it. I’ve nearly fixed her hips and spine, damage that has been there for decades. But is she any happier? Hardly.

Two idiots bumble around in her head, telling her lies about reality. There are some men around town who have done things like check their hair after walking past her. Hot guys, mind you. Guys that she’s convinced are out of her league. (She doesn’t know she’s pretty, guys. You never tell her. She’s autistic. She doesn’t think your momentary attention is a compliment; it’s a detriment, knocking her out of auterspace. How rude you are, making her think about your narcissistic asshole face while she’s contemplating how best to save The Universe(TM). But hot tattoo guy… thank you. One of the best compliments I could ever receive. Thank you!)

So the two idiots bumbling around her skull like to tell her stuff like that guy is thinking about her every two hours and had a stiffy at work while tattooing a pair of boobs on some man’s arm. Like she could believe that. That man is a real fox. There’s no way. None. Fuck you for lying to her again, Benja-Nick.

We turned their names into a portmanteau. We’re quite proud of it, too. We like portmanteaus. I got another for ya: JICK. A mix between a jerk and a dick, and twice as bad because it’s both at once. That’s Benja-Nick in a nutshell for you.

They torment her, day in and day out. “Remember the gas guy? He still has the hots for you, lady.” Nope, not possible. I’ve only gotten two compliments all year and that only doubles the ones I’ve ever received unbidden. People you date are supposed to tell you they like looking at you. They lied to me and I know that because they all cheated on me.

They really did. Ben had Jessica and also lusted for everything that ever moved that wasn’t her, specifically, because he wanted her to suffer for being beautiful and “dumb.” Nick had Candace. Anthony had Carissa (and Chris.) Jeremy had his favorite ex. Lucien had his wife, Kelly. Burr slept with Amy and Carlotta both. Paul had his favorite chickadee. Ross had whomever he pleased, ignoring super babe crying on fucking camera. If you don’t address it, it never happened, amirite?

Not a single fucking man has ever stepped up to plate, gotten the home run, and accepted he was the winner of an autistic babe’s affections. Why is that? She studied the movies. She figured out she had to give compliments and praise, so she does that. She figured out she had to make eye contact, so she does that. She figured out how to pretend to be normal, so she does it. But she’s not normal. Is that why you all run for the hills? Because she’s… capable? Because she’s… talented? Because she’s… smart?

She’s a Velma that looks like a Daphne, not that there’s anything wrong with Velma. We just don’t wear orange. We used to have glasses, but we got LASIK to improve our quality of life. After wearing contacts for a time, we determined that our quality of life would improve if we didn’t have to put glasses on every morning just to see when we opened our eyes. We’d argue this is a service every man and woman and child on the planet deserves once their eyes stabilize. They deserve the pleasure of never wearing glasses or contacts ever again. (If they can go through it… it’s apparently unsettling to watch it happen.)

Anyway, why are they tormenting her about tattoo man? She’s thinking about getting a tattoo of her deceased cat’s paw print on her right wrist. A constant reminder of the baby she lost this past Monday. August 22. Four PM is when she buried her baby. 9:30 AM is when she woke up to him unable to get off the floor because he became paralyzed.

Is there anyone to hold her while she cries? Yeah, me. God. My arms aren’t material, though. Not that she really needs it. The assholes in her head cry more than she does. Every time she cries for her dearly departed kitty, Bill, he pops out of the spirit world and brushes up against her ankles and legs. She is instantly comforted, even if she doesn’t fully process her kitten has returned to seduce her, to bring her back to neutral.

She remarked of his body, “You know, I know he’s dead… he hasn’t moved in hours… but with his eyes open like that, I kind of expect him to come back to life any moment.” She became a sniveling mess of her own accord only when she pushed dirt over his beautiful little face. She howled then, letting go of his earthly body. Something inside her wanted to hold the corpse for a long time, and she might’ve given in if the cat enjoyed that while alive. He didn’t.

Nay, he enjoyed sitting on the back of her chair and eating her hair. There’s nothing quite like two massive cat paws holding your head still with the faintest prick of the claws just so he can nom away at your hair.

She called him her guardian angel, her gargoyle, her tiny tiger. He wasn’t orange, as you might expect from the last, but he was tabby marked. He must’ve been part Russian blue due to his immense size and coloring.

Random cat that looks much like my deceased cat.

You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind.

You wanna talk about True Love(TM), this cat and this cat’s lady experienced it. Poor Bill is survived by one owner and two siblings. We’ve renamed them to Chief Handsome and Princess Peach for the purpose of this writing. One is a tuxedo cat and the other is a dilute tortoiseshell. Both are maximum cuddle. And whine, too.

“Where’s Bill, mom? Where’s my snuggle buddy?!” Brinks knows he’s gone; he sniffed the body. Ban-ban, on the other hand, not so much. She gets cold easily and Bill would let her snuggle up to him, even when he was tired of her shit. I can remember watching one day as she ran up to him, flipped onto her back and used her momentum to get underneath Bill just to attack him. He placed one massive paw on her and was all like, “Please.”

Still, I suppose now that I’m down to two fur babies, I have absolutely no excuse not to move out. On the other hand, I’m the only reason two ancient assholes are still breathing and flush with cigarettes and food. On the other hand, I’ve got to climb back out of this shit hole I landed in. I’m supposed to land on my feet, right, if I’m aspiring to be a cat? (Meow.)

I don’t know where God went. He gave me the mic and ran into the night. He’s a he right now. They’re gender fluid, that God. Sometimes I call him a sir and she’s like “ahem.” And then I’m like, ma’am! And again, “ahem.” Damn, messed it up again. Alumnus. (Thank you, child, rings in my head after that.) That’s when God is neither male or female, you see. It is also how we address broccoli when thanking it for giving us its life force so that we may live another day.

Sure, we’re probably crazy. But so are you all out there, scurrying around like ants at full speed. You don’t look nearly as cute when you crash into each other. At least with ants, I can pretend they’re kissing as they butt antennae and exchange information with each other. I love watching my ants toil away, collecting resources for the nest. Do they ever really think of themselves? Nope. It’s all about getting more and more food for the nest. I know this because I feed them.

See, ants have scouts. They send them off to seek new food sources while the majority of them are directed to large portions of food the scouts already found. You discover stuff like this when you give them two apple cores and they’re still in your sink, trying to find the source of the amazing scent of whatever it is that got in the sink that they want to eat. I also found out that they eat fly corpses, so that was pretty cool. I have a fly graveyard right now… God and I play “How much death and destruction can we wreak today?” Man, sometimes there are at least thirty flies around. I swear they’re procreating somewhere but damned if I know where (lest it be the garbage can, that would make sense.)

That makes me think of the day of the mealworm explosion. Now that was pretty gross… at least, killing them was. I forgot for a brief time that maggots don’t have legs, so I thought that’s what I was seeing… but nay! Mealworms. Ugh. They pop when you kill them. It was very unsettling and I couldn’t make myself do it more than one time by hand. (I put one of those Clorox wipes over it and killed it…) Then after three murders something like that, I discovered there were a ton of them behind the garbage can! UGH! I lost my shit and acted like a typical girl. So, God, in their infinite wisdom, retrieved the bleach spray and we sprayed them all. Except I don’t like that, either; they died a very slow and agonizing death. It would have been better to end them swiftly instead of disintegrating their exterior with bleach.

Who is this woman talking about killing bugs humanely? Oh, right. The savior of mankind. I forgot. Where was I?

Hmm… well, you know. I think I said enough about bugs… though I neglected my favorite kinds. They don’t tend to get in the house, wouldn’t you know? Butterflies, sure, but I love moths, too. They’re so shiny. Speaking of shiny… have you ever seen a soul?

I mean, you know, I call it a soul… but it could be something else, I suppose. What should I call a ball of energy inside your noggin? Something tells me God named this super power I developed over time. That’s what happens when you teach an autistic girl just enough shamanism to get herself into trouble for life. I plan to get into more trouble (after getting back out of it, of course.)

Anyway, it’s between your eyes and around the middle of your noggin. I think that’s about where the amygdala sits. The amygdala is the center of our emotional body. If that’s not a soul, then what is?

“The amygdala helps coordinate responses to things in your environment, especially those that trigger an emotional response. This structure plays an important role in fear and anger.” Thanks, Google.

So what does an exceptionally shiny soul mean? Does it mean intense fear or anger? I’m glad you asked, because it does not. It means you know how to process your emotions real-time, basically. You aren’t bogged down by traumas. Most people are about the same lumens in intensity as a 40 watt light bulb… so imagine my surprise in meeting a flood light one day. Well, I say meeting, but what I mean is seeing.

I was soul blinded. I couldn’t even look at the person underneath, it was so bright and intense. It knocked me off my “game” for weeks, let me tell you. (There is no game, stop it. There is only life and death and everything in between.) It was some rando dude in a Wegmans deli. I tell you, I saw that man’s soul for the first time ‘cuz God. ‘Cuz why would I look at anything besides food in a freakin’ grocery store. I’m on a quest for sustenance, not shopping for a boyfriend. God was doing the latter, let me tell you.

So I see this guy and I’m blinded, right. He moves and I skitter off, nowhere to be seen. I can’t take it yet, any direct attention. I’m shy, for one thing, though I learned how to fake not being shy. I just don’t talk about myself. I talk about anything but myself, basically. You, the sky, the weather, the sun, meteorology, science, maths… whatever it takes to converse but not reveal my True Self(TM). After revealing myself too many times and getting too many criticisms, I do not expose anything that I’m not ready to take the heat on.

I grew up in the gamer boy culture before being a gamer girl that can kick your ass was cool.

So I hid my true self somewhere or other. She might be over there, or over there, or behind that rock. See her? I don’t.

Oh wait. I am her.

Right. Shiny souls. So this deli man had a really shiny one. I’m third eye blind, so I’m not really sure what color it was. God tells me that if I could see colors of souls, then I’d be set. So I’m trying now. I want to see all the pretty colors. If I could read auras from a distance, it’d be so easy to avoid people who suck.

After three or four visits to look at this man’s shiny soul, I get comfortable, right? Oh, he won’t catch me. I’m thirty five feet away. I can relax. WRONG! The dude turns around and makes eye contact with me, homing in on my eyes like he knew I was there the whole time.

The only thought I had was, “Wow, his eyes are pretty.”

After about five seconds, the next thought I had was, “You know, I was taught it’s impolite to stare.” And away we went. God pushed me along. Nothing to see here, folks! NOTHING.

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