The stupid cat is crying because I’m not doing it right. I’m not right. He’s trying to lead me to the place on the couch where I’m supposed to be right, but I’m not right.
So he mewls and me-rowls all deep and pitiful because it’s not right and the world isn’t right and that hurts him and so he doesn’t clean his fur. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be or ever has been in his entire short life, which is all there has ever been as far as he knows.
Can you blame him? Life is exactly what it has proven to be. Consistently. If you sit here on the couch until four and you go outside through the kitty door until eight and then you sleep on the bed with the old lady until morning for your entire life, well…then that’s what life is.
So I don’t do it right.
So I’m not right.
What the fuck do you want from me cat. You want me to be God all of a sudden?
You want me to be God. Why can’t I just do that?
So, I’ll pet you and tell you I don’t know, because I don’t know and I’ll try to sit with you on the couch, but honestly, it’s never going to be right. You see that?
Are you going to die now? Because you’re so sad; because you’re a fucking cat. You gonna give up?
What can I tell you?
If you were smarter, you’d see that’s just what you were used too. Understand?
So which would you rather have cat?
You want to have that short life of yours or do you want to have a just life or would you rather have a fucking stroke? Would you rather have a massive fucking stroke smashing your goddamn brains against your skull and forget everything?
Just sit here and watch TV with me and I’ll pet you and try to talk stupid to you and we can both pretend. Can you just do that for a minute?
We can both pretend.