I can’t eat beef stew anymore. I can’t eat bread. I can’t consume yeast nor soup. I’m running out of vegetables to get sick of. I’m tired of going to the farmer’s market and getting into fights every time. I’m sick of everything involving food in my life. Rooster said I might have an eating disorder, so he’s been locked out since Saturday. I think he’s under Manhattan right now doing drugs and having sex with peacocks with our bastard cousin Bennington (hate). Meanwhile I’m trying hard to be good and keep away from guns, violence, chemical stimulants, and Sylvester Stallone films (I don’t find him sexy, on the contrary I think he should be executed for drinking raw eggs in Rocky. I will never forgive him for what he did to our people. The exercise fad in America was another Holocaust for us. Never forget).
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life but I’ve never had a threesome, and I’ve never regretted anything. I’ve been unhappy, near death, suicidal, addicted to every drug known to bird, and worst of all, cruel to those I love and those who love me, including my husband. I left him alone for months at a time when I was killing people on another continent. I just want to be a normal bird from now on and a big part of that is regulating my diet and figuring out how exactly it is that “normal people” live. Everyone either talks about the weather and food, and since I have the inside track on our government’s weather machines, I know what’s coming and can’t listen to speculation very long without getting bored. “It’s gonna rain on November 6th, don’t water your plants.” “But Monica, it’s September…?” “Believe me, I know.” They never believe me. Why?
I think it’s because I’m a hen. No one believes us, and yet our breasts provide “food” for your pleasure. God bless Morrissey, I hope he never dies. But I can’t go vegan. I’m sick of beef stew but I’ll return to it. Tonight I’ve decided on a beet salad with the following: farro, broccoli, mushrooms, carrots, walnuts, shrimp, and beets. I’m also having bread with sriracha sauce. While the boys are out, I’m staying sober and sticking with a ginger ale and a dash of orange soda (I’m bad). It’s a nice meal. Really rejuvenates you, but no one wants to eat it with me. I suppose I’m not a very attractive dinner guest; I do scarf it down like an animal and make noises like a beast. I think my husband wishes I were more refined and less birdlike, but I can’t help it, it’s in my nature. It’s the same in how I love him: the heart wants what it wants.
I’m asking you to listen to me: the men in my life are making me feel useless and small. Why do I feel powerless in my own home, alone no less? It must be someone else’s fault. I hope someone tries to rape me so I can go all Straw Dogs on them. That would be so much fucking fun holy shit… I should place a personal ad…
•••
“I’m outside of your house.”
Monica got up and brushed the feathers from her eyes. It was late. She had fallen asleep on the couch. She was on the phone. She didn’t remember picking up, or why. “What?”
“I’m outside of your house.”
“…What?”
“I’m outside of your house with a gun.”
“WHAT—”
“I’m coming in.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits