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.