I will try to get a rec of her arguing with the dog, a ritual that goes on every time she tries to take it outside.
Because she has made the dog mad by screaming at it and confusing it all the time, he isn’t ever sure she’s trying to take him out when she is because the imbecile does it all wrong, confusing the dog even more… to which she responds with even more snarling.
The cue that signals for the dog is the sound of the door being opened. Do that, and he’ll come to it every time.
Instead of doing this, she’ll ask the dog if it needs to go outside and start heading toward the door. The dog will stop in the middle of the room as she stands ten feet from the door asking it “do you really have to go or are you just trying to get me off the computer”. This will happen at least fifteen times a day. The dog will look at her not knowing what she is asking. She’ll then get mad at the dog, start shouting at it, and go back to the computer. The dog will then shit or piss on the carpet. She’ll then shout and curse the dog like a madwoman (wait til you hear it), grab exactly two paper towels (because a single paper towel is so expensive… better only use two) and try to absorb a full bladder of urine out of the carpet with it. Then back to the computer and repeat in about 45 min.
All she has to do to get the dog outside is walk in here and open the front door. That’s it. Not a word need be said.
Fifteen times a day, these two morbid creatures pass by me on their way to the foyer and stop to argue for five minutes right in front of me as i lay here with a busted eyeball watching it.
Like some kind of retarded seven year old playing with its dolls is what this is like. She’s so stupid she can’t even set her digital alarm clock. She talks to this dog like it’s a human being. Beyond the baby talk stuff all dog owners do. This is mental shit. Sick cat lady shit. The final result of a life of shit… the most angry, most resentful, most impotent piece of shit there can be. She’ll fly into a fit of rage over a spot on a wash cloth (she has fifty wash cloths in the closet) and follow me around the house screaming and heaving because she can’t breath about this spot on the wash cloth. Me. A guy who has my problems. I’m to be chased around about a spot on a wash cloth.
Sometimes, i think she wants me to kill her because despite my warnings, she will not stop. I tell her none of this will be planned and that she will finally push that button and i will smash her head like a melon. She has the choice. Life or a spot on a wash cloth.
Now she thinks we’re playing a game and starts in again. My instinct sends me a short step toward her, fists clenched. I see it happen in my head, but obviously, i stop and don’t do it.
But what i feel when i see this in my head is a kind of phantom viseral relief; i finally did it, and now i am free to go full ham on the world because who’s gonna willingly walk into a prison after killing someone. I know, right?
I want you to remember that i can’t get out of here because of these felonies and this registry bullshit. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve lost money answering fake apartment rental ads, so i gave up. And the big apartment complexes won’t take me.
Although this seems like one of the a best selling novels you’ve ever read, this is all actually happening. These elaborate, sickening, filthy knots of shit that i am in, in all their unreal complexity… almost like they couldn’t have just happened… almost as if some sick god is playing a game… this is all happening right now. And i am to blame for none of it.
… and to think: “all they had to do was remove him from the registry and give him his life back” as one walked through the wasteland i left in my wake.
Didn’t i tell you this was best selling novel shit? Like I’ve even got the greek tragedy writers stumped.
