February 2nd, Year of Taurus

Josh says we are going to get married. We will live in a house in Oregon, where everything is green as far as the eye can see. I hate the color green. I hate Oregon. It is 12:30 a.m. He will surely call me soon, to propose matrimony once more. This is a regular occurrence. He has taken to drinking heavily, and begging me to be his wife. He says the reason he has become an alcoholic is that I exist, but not by his side. I exist apart from him. He wants to me bear his children, live out the rest of my days receiving his affection, and giving it in return. I would rather impale myself. Everyone would see me bleed out, and they would say, oh look, she really was human.

The neighborhood cats are disappearing. Now, I know this is terribly uninteresting, but it isn’t really. It’s more of a murder mystery. One that will remain unsolved, because feline witnesses can’t talk, and the two cat corpses I saw have been picked up by the city, or a very hungry resident. Impossible to perform an autopsy on a memory. Or is it?

February 2nd, Year of Taurus

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