Fox 1: Say Hello, Kitty.
Here goes nothing.
I feel pretty stupid writing in this thing, and I feel like I have to justify it to myself, or to whichever sneaky bastard swipes this notebook, before I write another word.
This guy who stayed with us in the village for a few weeks once worked for a Sanrio Boutique store. He told me that Hello Kitty’s soulless little face appears on over 10,000 products, but no one really knows how many, not even the company. We started joking about how Hello Kitty had multiplied itself beyond human control, become something more than a character or a logo, some sort of sinister consumerism deity that could never be eradicated, unless you found the original one, the prototype, the originator of the line, and burned it. Unless that happened, the only things left hanging out after a nuclear holocaust would be cockroaches, Twinkies, and Hello Kitty.
Fast-forward to when I’m in Charlotte, a Lick still wet behind the ears, and someone got a hold of the journal of that priss, the Carthy Lord (or was he a Shadow? Whatever.) and brought it to Elysium, and read it out loud while everyone hooted and laughed. Then they did it again when he stormed in and demanded they give it back, but there was nothing he could do, that poor SOB, except get all beasty while they passed it around and read juicy parts and belly-laughed. On top of that, he got punished for losing possession of it (could have been a breach, you see?), but that was bullshit, because everyone knew there was nothing sensitive in it, just highly detailed descriptions of his creep-o sexual fantasies and flings with various girls and a few guys, and a lot of cry-baby whining about being treated unfairly.
The part that killed me was that, of course, his journal was some pricey leather-bound tome with a fucking lock on it, and the whole thing looked like it was older than me. Dumbass! That guy didn’t know the first thing about hiding shit. Rule one is don’t write down anything (yeah, I know. Shut up.). Rule two, write it somewhere no one expects to find it.( Like in here.Collapse )
Like in here. I swiped this tacky notebook from one of my roommates a few years ago, back in the day, back before the night. I thought she’d have something dramatic written in it, but there were only a few mopey poems and a checklist.
I kept it though. It’s hideous, but something about it fascinates me. It’s ugly and obnoxious, but it goes unnoticed because there’s so much of it. It’s part of the scenery now, invisible.
Look at that stupid cat playing dress-up. You’re a cat, Kitty. Why you dressing up like a girl? Nobody’s fooled. You can put a bow in your fur, thirty bows, and you can put on a dress and hide your eyes with cat-eye shades, but nobody’s fooled. You’re still a cat, Kitty, and you do what cat’s do. You chase mice, and when you catch them, you do all the rest. Claw, bite, eat.
Like the rest of these prissy Licks, with the flowing red locks and the gowns and the silk ties and pomade. Say what you want, look your dirty looks, but you and me, we both chase mice, and we treat them the same. Claw, bite, eat.
You and me, we’re the same.
So, say hello, kitty.