Rage stage
There was a pack of two catnip strawberry toys at Five Below for Valentine’s Day. Every time I looked at them, I thought, nah, I have three kiddos.
I’d found three Christmas bulb toys in a pack. And three Hocus Pocus broom toys before that. And three Peeps. You get the idea.
Eggy. We had bacon and avocado toast too.
Today I was in 5B and there was one pack of twin strawberries left.
I bought them. And cried all the way to the register, remembering that I don’t have my gray baby to go home to anymore.
I always tried to bring something home for her. Ribs. Chicken. A cheeseburger. Which, McDonald’s fucked up Cokie’s last cheeseburger. I said plain and it was covered in ketchup. Just like Olive Garden fucked up Kadie’s last fettuccine Alfredo. I am not even sure what they gave me, but I had to go back. I wasted that time. I didn’t waste that time for Cocoa. Let fuckups be fuckups.
My northern family is in town tonight. I have been looking so forward to seeing them for months. I just canceled. They don’t need the sad girl there to ruin their good time.
Of course, that leaves me to wonder if I might not see all (or any) of them again. Like, should I have sucked it up because, god, they are my long-ago-workplace family?
Got into a rip-roaring fight with Carl from the next building. He figured out that I’m the 6 a.m. community cat feeder. He is the reason I am no longer the 6 p.m. feeder. And why that gal goes later if she sees Lurch out patrolling the lot.
Get him, Cocoa.
Carl is very mad that Meatball sleeps in his bushes. And that Meatball pooped in the bushes and buried it in the sand. I said cry me a fucking river. He said he can’t keep his windows open. I said I can’t either because everyone here is a fucking chainsmoker. He said I am very nasty for not sympathizing with him. I said you are nasty for taking photos of my crotch eery time you see me (as that’s how he approached — with his camera on me).
We yelled at each other for a good 15 minutes. The cats, who had been eating, scattered. Then people started walking their ugly fucking dogs. So I scooped up all the wet food with my hands and threw it away at home. I told him those cats hate you and that’s why they must be near you. He said you know NOTHING about animals. I said I know you’re trash and so is your daughter. He said well I am not my daughter. Like WTF kind of answer is that?
He’s just a small, miserable wuss of a man. And I sincerely don’t understand why my baby had to die but Carl and every piece of shit loser asshole who has to stalk and harass me online and off is still alive. I mean, what a goddamned waste. No one will miss any of them a quarter as much as I miss my little girl. Not even an eighth, I’d bet.
Anyway it’s no fun coming home without immediately seeing Cokie behind the door. Without scooping her up and her purring louder than the pipes rattle when I wash dishes because the dishwasher doesn’t work and the walls are literally made of paper. Without cutting up a cheeseburger into a thousand little pieces because she had no toofs, and watching her gobble it like I gave her the greatest gift the land could offer.
So, no, Carl, I genuinely do not give a fuck about your stupid windows or you being mildly inconvenienced, for that matter.
Oh and he did harass the night shift, too. We’re both blonde and the same height, so he yelled at her too and said something odd to me about having this discussion with me before. Like, so your MO is basically just harassing women in the dark and taking photos of them squatting. AND you drive a child predator van with Ohio plates. Real fucking prize, there.
He must hate that we all think he’s a joke. But really, he hasn’t given us reason not to. We all sent him running and crying to his blind daddy. Who he should be spending time with, not us, right?
If only I could trade my baby’s life for Carl’s. For just about anyone’s, really.
The anger stage is real and it’s my favorite so far.