It’s been a while since I’ve written, my apologies. I’m assuming that Trevor asked me to write because his beard is greying and his look resembles the pseudo-homeless French intellect he has striven to look like since he was 13. He was listening to “Last Thoughts on Woodie Guthrie” yesterday and I think I caught him gesturing with his hand just before he reached for his whiskey. I can only quote my favorite band in an attempt to show my contempt for his chicanery; foux du fafa, Trevor, foux du fricken fafa.
I’ve been wondering about our current predicament, mulling over whether I should have told him that there were bed bugs sucking the lifeblood from his veins for hours on end every night. I suppose it was petty of me to be upset about the fact that he kept blaming me for bringing fleas into the house, like I was some sort of mongrel. It did pain me a bit to see him scratch the skin off those scabs he had been building up, but alas I have a pretty action unpacked life so I just let him figure it out himself as I watched the drama unfold. I was woken one night by the sound of him sprinting around, then saw his naked body flash across my blurred vision as he opened the back door. Well, we can get to that part later.
I have finally settled in here in Austin, “a blue-berry in the tomato soup”, according to some ken doll named Rick Perry. I don’t really know if I would call it a blueberry, probably something more like a hemp seed or a granola biscuit. Either way, tomato soup tastes like shit. A golden retriever on H Street told me that her human has been buying “organic.” Organic rice and organic rapeseed apparently make for a delicious post-jog snack. Builds muscle. That’s interesting, because I eat organic grass and organic squirrel carcass and have not seen any muscle gain yet. Maybe its my lack of self-delusion that prevents me from buying into this marketing campaign designed to make humans think that they are helping the planet and their bodies by buying “naturally grown” products in stores with a carbon footprint that would make Winston the Basenji God beak into a sneezing fit. Here is my advice; go outside, pick up a supple looking branch and dig in. My stomach has never been healthier and I eat through three or four of those nutrient rich, organic, humanely grown, bark covered wood treats a day. Oh and don’t worry about recycling because when you are full you can just rest your Sequoia Succotash against the house and come back for it later. Oh and by the way, Winston doesn’t exist, so just get over it.
The house is in shambles. Trevor made what he calls an “executive decision” to sublease the house out to a couple of hipsters or hippies or some strange H word that means people don’t shower. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” he said to me. Like I gave a shit who lived in the house while I was vacationing up north for summer. I’ve tried so many times to throw myself into the creek that runs past the place in hopes that I could be swept back out to sea and home to Puerto Rico. I digress. Apparently this couple turned out to be less hipster and more herder. After kindly asking if they could keep and old cat in his room for the summer, they made the “executive decision” to house a rat farm, a python snake, and two cats in the home. Oh, and the aforementioned bed bugs. I’m not sure if the bugs were pets or just travel companions, either way they are about as entertaining as any houseguest we have ever had. I was naming them until I ran out of names, then I just separated them by gender, put a sheet over the females making it harder for them to get to the top and then watched as the males mocked them as they got bigger and fatter. Then I ate a couple males to even the score but it turns out that blind chauvinism tastes like organic horse hoof curated in natural cow shit.
Trevor was covered in bites and his hours that were supposed to be dedicated to grading his students discussion posts were consumed by violent outbursts of scratching and cursing his Winston, someone the humans call Lord. Weird name right? You would think with all the funny names they have they could have come up with something more thrilling and that didn’t rhyme with bored. Anyway, apparently this Lord guy is almighty and if you don’t scream for him to have mercy every once in a while the doggy bag hits the fan.
That night he “discovered” the bedbugs, which is kind of like when white people “discovered” America; it’s not really that he discovered them so much as he finally realized that his bed was round and other creatures had been living on the other side for way longer than he would like to admit. He feverishly scanned his sheets with his reading lamp until he let out a banshee like howl. Like a cow-prodded praying mantis he pranced from one end of the house to the other screaming to Lord and someone called Damnation. His white skin was about all I could see as he did knee-highs across the living room, then he opened the back door and sprinted out completely furless. I didn’t see him for a while, so I had time to go back to my regular evening entertainment of watching the male bedbugs have unfair advantage and then congratulating them when they reached the top. I saw this once on a TV show called C-Span: The House of Representatives. Really boring show. Lord this, Lord that, if I wanted to watch self aggrandized delusional egomaniacs proselytize I could go to another Business School tailgate with Trevor. Nevertheless, I am still upset that he paid a 1000 dollars that could have been used to buy me treats to heat the house and kill all of my bedbug friends. He also used vinegar to clean the freezer and the rotted flesh left behind by the frozen mice that the Hucksters fed to their python. Alas, all of the good smells are gone and the house has no more fun playmates. Humans have no room for fun.This is Trevor’s last year at Public Policy School. Makes me wonder where we will go next. Wherever it is, I really hope that they have bedbugs.