Who are you?

"A question I've been trying to answer since adolescence. I finally decided I was neither God nor Satan. I was so disappointed I didn't try to narrow it down any further."

-Orson Scott Card, The Worthing Saga

It's getting rough around here

Living on the Northside has become utterly unbearable. The Stalkers are everywhere. Yesterday I spent the whole afternoon up in a tree because the squirrels were everywhere... watching me. They come to my house, sit on my eaves, and scare all the birds away. I had to resort to bringing Billy a mouse for a present which was really embarrassing after last week's run of sparrows and -the highlight- a red-headed woodpecker. (I only ate a little bit of his head feathers, too, so he still looked pretty. Billy was so pleased he threw an entire can of tuna at me. Anybody got a can opener?)

But these squirrels, man, like I was sayin, they're really starting to get to me. I can't focus. I almost got eaten by Sarge the Unwashed German Shepherd the other day because I was distracted by one of the stalker-squirrels in The Big Oak Tree. Good thing I got serious vertical... but that shit was demoralizing.

Anyway, I talked to Sparkles The Maine Coon down the road and she said that it's happening to her too. They're everywhere. They called inspections on her litter pan and wrote on the internet that she's actually a TABBY. The horror! THAT'S DEFAMATION! I'm glad to know it's not just me. But, I gotta get outta here. The stress is overwhelming. These fucking squirrels just want to ruin me because I'm awesome and all the dogs like me (except Sarge but that's just because he's maladjusted.) What do they care anyway? It's not like I'm competing for their nuts or anything. It's all so wrong. I didn't even tell on them for digging up the tulips. Bastards. Sparkles got one of their tails though. That was awesome. He doesn't come around anymore now. Serves him right.

Meow.

-Puzzle


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Quote-time with Puzzle the Cat - Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitches

When I first started looking for houses there I was plenty scared, because a whore had been shot dead while running down the street naked. Usually I obligingly rolled to a stop in reverence of the asshole stroll every time, and I tried to appear appropriately frightened so as to show that their effort wasn't wasted on me, because who knew whether that was a retractable hacksaw in their back pocket?


But the crack dealers and dead whores don't daunt those who have "vision." I'm not one of them, mind you, but Grant, who has "vision," told me that other people with "vision" would be buying houses there, and that it was best to get in on it while I could still buy a house with a monthly note less than what I paid to spay my cat. So I looked for a house, and even though i was plenty scared by my potential new neighbors, what really scared me was the fear I'd make a bad investment.


"Just wait," said my friend with "vision." Creative poor people can't afford Kirkwood or East Atlanta anymore, so the West End is the next wave. It looks like he's right. Creative poor people are snatching up homes there like pigeons attacking an abandoned picnic. Caravans full of poor arty types come through every weekend, and off they scatter into the Land of Affordable Houses, with their body piercings and cargo pants, retro furniture and upscale-burrito breath. They hardly pay any mind to the crack dealers, who shake their heads dejectedly, knowing it's a bad day for the neighborhood when bleachy-haired honky bitches won't brake to accommodate a good asshole stroll.

-Hollis Gillespie, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitches