I've been thinking. Today, my dog didn't want to eat his breakfast, he's been throwing these eating hissy fits for a week now and only eats when I get down on my knees next to him and feed him by hand, he literally wants to eat his food out of my hand, period. Then, when he finished eating this morning, I got up and put his collar on him, opened the door for him and we went out for a walk — and walked as fast (meaning slow) as he wanted to walk. When you think about it, I feed him food for which he's never paid since he hasn't worked a day in his life, I open the door for him, I keep him clean and I pick up his shit after him, that's basically the arrangement of our relationship and I'm supposed to believe that I, the human, am the master in this situation? I'm starting to question that . . . Anyhow, here's one of my
master's dog's latest diary entries.
Then everything was quiet till late afternoon when some random dude came over. He wore skinnier pants than her and his top was cut so low, I think I saw a nipple at one point. I mean, why even wear clothes then — I can see your crotch and your cleavage, fuck. And I was totally hesitant to say hi, duh, I mean the dude smelled like shit. She, on the other hand, hugged him immediately, that slut, and said: "You smell nice." Cross my heart, that's what she said and I thought to myself: "Nice? Bitch, you must be trippin', this dimwit doesn't smell nice, he smells of sandalwood, musk, citrus and ocean! Who the fuck wants to smell of sandalwood, musk, citrus and ocean?! Yuck!"
Then he came in and they sat down by the kitchen table. And where was I? Oh, that's so nice of you to ask, dear diary. I was under the table farting away. Yes, farting, that's what I do, I fart like a pro, sue me. I'm actually quite proud of the level of farting skills I've developed, although I must admit there's a thin line between pride and shame when it comes to farting, I'll give you that. Or should I say there's a thin skid-mark between farting proud and when farting goes south. Anyhow, when the dude first said: "Omg, I think the dog farted," I was beaming with joy, at least I got some attention. But when he jumped up and ran from the table screaming: "Fuck, my mouth was open this time!! Can we please, please, make him go out on the balcony," I thought to myself: "What a little bitch. That's all we need up in this joint — another drama queen."
And while we're on the subject of farting, do you know what she said to me the other day?? She said I needed a new tattoo — the sign for biohazard on my forehead. Bitch.
Anyhow, then in the evening the dude came over, THE dude, her dude. She calls him boo, I call him stupid. We went for a walk and all of a sudden I saw a cat, just carelessly lying in the middle of the pavement, stretching and catching some last sun rays, the damn fucker. Then he started walking toward the cat and I started growling: "Yeah, you tell her, dude, tell that bitch to leave!!!" And he got closer and closer, but the cat didn't move. Why the fuck didn't the cat move??? I'll tell you why. Because he wasn't screaming at her to leave, no, he sure wasn't, he was just walking toward her. And then when he got right up to her, you know what he did?!?! He knelt down and petted the damn limb-stretching-sun-ray-catching beeyatch. And then I lost it. Three guys had to come running to hold me down. Well, not really. It was only her, but she's freakishly strong. I mean, she must be to pin down a lean mean machine like me. Anyhow, after that cat petting incident I was basically done. All I wanted to do was go back home and be left alone. Stupid fucks. Only you get me, diary. You would never do that to me, wouldn't you? You'd never betray me like that.
So I think it's crystal clear — I definitely need a vacation after this DAY FROM HELL. I'm telling you, I NEED it. A long, nice, proper va-cay. Some me time. Some R&R. Some fun in the
sun shade. And I need it ASAP.
Like what you see? Then follow FPS via email (or Twitter, Bloglovin or Google+) and never miss an update. Or simply stop by again sometimes!