New Domain

Relocation to: www.nocakeforyou.com

 

Disney Sheets

Pouncing on my hair, the cat unleashes a series of pitiful, neglected meows into my left ear.

“Ugh,” I groan, shielding my face with the comforter. I roll onto my side and curl into a protective ball.

“Meow!” she insists, ramming her head against my shoulder and leaving a trail of nose slime down my back.

I mumble a few miscellaneous syllables and drag myself to a sitting position. The cat jumps to the floor, flops down, and promptly begins bathing.

“You know what you need?” I stare at the blurry figure. “You need Mountain Dew. You need glasses. You need some Ghostbuster muzac!” She licks her foot. “I think-” She looks up at me, regal disdain written in her tweaked whiskers. “Fine! I’m taking everything! So there!”

I whip out my right hand, grasp my glasses, and flick them to my face. I whip out my left hand, grasp a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew, twist off the cap, and chug down a couple gulps.

I do this simultaneously. It is a thing of beauty.

“Theme song time, kitty!” I yelp, reaching for the stereo remote.

…

I glare at the empty space on the bed-stand.

The remote is on the other side of the room, resting between a stack of abandoned text books and the pair of black leather hooker boots I picked up in Holland. Futilely, I stretch my arm and attempt to summon it. My hand drops. I blink. I reach again.

Well, alrighty - if that’s how it’s gonna be.

“REMOTE!” I bellow, staggering out of bed and tangled in blankets. “COME TO ME!”

Something yanks me back.

I fall.

Attempting to free myself from the Pocahontas sheet wrapped around my right foot, I kick my feet in the air and wave my arms. My struggles only strengthen the fabric’s stranglehold on my leg. More frantic kicking.

Pause.

Blink.

What am I, a turtle?

Half-heartedly, I flip onto my stomach and try to pull myself out with my arms. When this proves fruitless, I simply flail.

Several seconds pass before I finally collapse, covered in carpet burns and thoroughly thwarted.

“Meow?” The cat lightly bonks her head to mine. “…meow?”

“Yeah,” I mumble into the carpet. “I’m bored too.”

I stand, push the stereo power button, and go brush my teeth.

 

Fight Club has it right.

Kicking off my shoes and socks, I look down at my right foot. There are two parallel 1-inch incisions across the top.

“Huh,” I say, reaching down and poking one. “Cool.”

I cannot decipher the origin of the cuts, but that doesn’t really bother me. I just think, ‘That would be a damn nice scar,’ before flopping down on my bed to catch the tail end of a Star Trek Voyager episode.  But my foot is right in front of me; I can’t stop staring at it.

This happens every time I am nicked or bruised.  If my arm brushes against blackberry bush thorns, my hike may be delayed for several minutes: I must pause and blink, holding out my arm and admiring the insult.

But, right now, more important than the wound is the mystery. Did I catch my foot in a chip bag clip? A villain could have sewn razor blades into my shoe. Or, a mystic might have bewitched my shoelaces into whips!

I see conspiracy and political agendas everywhere.

Against my feet.

…

Dude. That’s the best I can come up with?

Having missed Star Trek, I find myself watching Mulan. She reminds me that I’m female and that I don’t “really” want scars, even from battle.

Raising my eyebrows, I telepathically communicate the word “skank” right back. Her song falters. “Bitch,” I send. “And your pores are huge!” This is when she sheers off her hair and starts cross-dressing; I feel guilty.

But her message remains: being female means that my skin is supposed to stay smooth. It’s supposed to stay sensual.

Still staring at my foot, I coo, “I really hope you scar,” and flip the channel.