I am drinking with my kitty and goldfish today. The goldfish comes to the surface to drink from my medicine dropper Booker’s Bourbon whiskey. My cat Berryman laps from the rocks glass and shakes his head and sneezes. Berryman asks the goldfish to jump out for a sec, and Cali the fantail told her story of being sick for three weeks because on a similar drunken day she flopped out and deposited her entire mucous membrane onto the shag carpet before person put her back. Berryman and the goldfish en masse had me place the flat screen on the ceiling. They for some reason like to look straight up. We watched Holy Motors and Berryman explained the imagery to us. Cali floated out of the tank and into my whiskey glass. She said, “crunch it,” and turned to an ice cube. I finished the whiskey and followed orders. Upon swallowing she plopped back into the tank and did a funny synchronized swim dance with the other goldfish. My mother came into the room to ask me if I was feeling better. I said no and everyone played dumb.
I might’ve stayed when you asked me to and I might’ve not taken all of your hot sauce and thimbles, but everything you did, all that shit you wrote out with fridge magnets, all those pills you put into the toilet were placebos. I was just testing you and you fucking twisted your hoof in it. I know you put Antabuse in the mustard and Revia in the ketchup, and you waited; I heard you run to the door when I went to pee. You even said when it was time for my shearing that I had to get a blood test first to see if my wool was ready, then you ran to the other room to put your drug test strip in my sample. I hate you. I’m leaving your blues below and my sunshine above. “BYE”