Working Title: Till Death*
I’ve had several people from my Facebook fan club recently tell me some variation of, “You’re hilarious but I’m concerned about you.” A just concern, my dear friends, a just concern. Because no, I’m not okay.
I’m kind of running an animal hospice right now, which omg how virtuous of me (right?) but also I’m going to spend the rest of their lives crying about their inevitable deaths.
Before my dojo became the chosen final resting place for a menagerie of exotic pets (including a mouse that once dramatically laid out in the middle of the kitchen floor and just fucking died), it was a fat bitch hotel. My dog—well, we all know about my son. He’s like his mother: he turns into a stuffed animal with rabies when it gets to feeding time. My fish (who was originally purchased as live feed for my turtle) and my late turtle (RIP Sugar) would see me open my bedroom door in the morning and go apeshit, fin and webbed feet fervently flailing about as they would try to swim through the glass into my hand full of dehydrated baby shrimp.
Some months after Sugar’s passing, when it became clear that the fish wasn’t just going to spontaneously die on its own (without a little encouragement), I decided to name it: Spartacus, aka Tough-Ass Puta. Months after the christening, I thought, “He looks a little lonely in that bowl. Best get him a plant friend.” So, I went to Petland Discounts and got Spartacus a lucky bamboo (oh, the morbid irony). Within the week, he was lethargic. He’d literally float around in slow-mo somersaults until he’d hit the glass and then swim off and do it all over again. He wouldn’t eat, and his bowl eventually became cloudy with uneaten soggy shrimp particles. I even sent out a Facebook post asking for “thoughts and prayers.” I think only 20 people “reacted,” which means that, out of the 1,000+ Facebook “friends” I have, approximately 980 are cuntbags.
So, I removed the lucky bamboo and changed out his water, and after two weeks, he’s back to his spritely former self, happily swimming in his own excrement.
And just in time, too! Because last week I noticed my gecko baby Maximus (I named her before I knew the sex of the child) had what looked like a bent spine, and she wasn’t using her back legs. Did she break something? Why does she look so fucked up? I called the Center for Avian and Exotic Medicine on the Upper West Side and ugly-cried as I spoke to a nurse. “Maybe she’s just cold?” Okay, cranked up the heating lamp to simulate a sauna-like environment for the next week. Not getting any better. So, I did what any mother would do: I skipped work and scheduled an emergency vet appointment at a local, bougie-ass clinic (because Brooklyn). Turns out, my baby girl has moderate-to-severe metabolic bone disease. Read: degenerative. Read: She gon’ die real soon.
My little girl, whom we peeled off the back of some furniture loaded into a moving truck that came from Arizona last Thanksgiving—my two-gram miracle, who managed to make it after traveling 10 days, without food. in sub-zero temperatures—is going to die soon. “Call us back if she’s still alive on Sunday,” that callous bitch said to me as I was cupping my hands over my eyes to catch the flash flood of tears, literally, pooling in my palms. I picked her up, put her in the little Tupperware I brought her in, paid $138 at the front counter, and took her home to rest.
When I got home, I just looked at Leo and said, “The day you die, I’m going to walk out into the street and kill a bunch of people.” Where my scientists at with that cure to pet mortality?
I can already hear some of you saying, “Frances, it’s a lizard,” to which I respond, “You shut that ugly hole in your face right now because that’s my child you’re talking about.”
So, this is the second 20″ pizza I’ve ordered for my dinner party of 1 this week. I think that’s fine, you know, given that I’m a little tender right now. The other week, before I was bathing in misery and woe (well, more than usual), I had three hard-boiled eggs for dinner. It’s not that far departed from my normal, is what I’m trying to say.
Despite it being “my brand,” I actually don’t like being miserable and hilariously sad all the time. I swear, life just finds me there…that, or my tragic decision making takes me there. And, like, also, blame this administration for ruining my life on a daily basis.
I also recently broke up with my boyfriend (again, but for real for real this time), so, that sucks. But I know it’s the right thing, mostly because I have a feeling that, were we ever to get back together, I’m already at that point where I’d pull a Zuri. For those of you not in the know, Zuri is the lioness from the Indianapolis zoo who killed her mate of eight years by crushing his trachea and waiting for him to suffocate to death——while their kid watched. It’s gruesome, yea, but you kind of get it though, right? I honestly don’t know how couples stay together long-term.
I’ve been exploring the idea of unadulterated rage a lot these days, especially after my intelligent friend wrote an awesome book about it. I’m usually way more tempered than my unhinged online persona, but lately, I’ve kinda just been letting it out, slowly, unabashedly, like trapped gas in your rectum. It feels good but also like I’m on the brink of completely losing control. On the subway ride home today, this little five-foot-nothin’ ginger bitch kept elbowing me in my side without so much as acknowledging that there was a person next to her—like, that’s the soft thing next to you that your elbow is meeting—much less apologizing. I just stood there, looking at her, fantasizing about what it would be like to feel her life force leaving her body as she slowly suffocated out… Yes, I’ll talk to my therapist about this on Friday.
OK. TO CONCLUDE: I’m heartbroken. I’m grieving. I’m still broke. And my arteries are clogged with sad solo dinners.
Is there no safe place for me and my saggy-ass cow stomach to just lie down and rest for a while? How about on this Idris Elba body pillow that I will be starting a GoFundMe account for y’all to donate to shortly?
Ok, pizza is getting cold. All for now. #PrayforMaximus.
Did someone already come up with the idea for a social media platform called Twotter, yet? If not, that’s mine.
*name of Peter Griffin’s brain-dead horse.