Our cat, Pudge, is the guy who went to high school with me who always had pot and was always willing to share. I think that guy was my boyfriend until he changed. Until I lost him. Easy going and generous with bloodshot, large-pupiled eyes. He never wanted any money, but he was always benevolent.
Pudge is that cat. Slick and beautiful. I could see him saying in Cat-ese, “I got some shit, Man. Wanna go out behind the school and get high? You bring the cream soda and Cool Ranch Doritos, and I will take care of the rest.” I can see myself going with him. I might even fall in love.
I got up early this morning and went to Hartford City. I was going to surprise my parents by meeting them at church. They weren’t there, so I went downstairs and watched 1, 2, 3 Penguins with Kelley and the kids.
Then I went up to the sanctuary and found another Kelly to chat with. I went to breakfast with them, and had some tasty French Toast. I still haven’t figured out how to make exceptional French Toast. Maybe I never will.
We spent almost five hours occupying a booth at Richard’s. The whole time Ron, the owner, kept eye-balling us, willing us to leave with his smirk and stink eye.
We left the waitress thirteen bucks, which is more than she would have made from anyone else who would have sat there during her shift. Most people who go there leave less than a dollar. I know. My friend, Shannon, waited tables there during high school and part of college. Her tips always sucked.
I went to New Orleans with Shannon once. I told her she had nice orbs when I was drunk on Hurricanes and high on ghosty goodness. We were supposed to be looking for ghosts on a ghost tour, and right outside the Lalaurie Mansion, I told Shannon she had nice orbs. We didn’t even see any ghosts.