A dog's worries

I am plagued by psychosomatic fleas. There are dead fleas everywhere, but I haven't seen any living fleas since the Great Bugbombing a few days ago. And yet, it feels like I'm being eaten alive.

After so much time with fleas, so many times bitten, every breeze against the hair on my arms feels like it might be a flea. I scratch all my skin — wrists, elbows, forehead, between the toes. No new bites. It's only in my mind, but it's enough to keep me awake.

♦ ♦ ♦

Lugosi wants to keep me awake, too. Barely slept at all last night, because the dog who thinks he's a moose was pacing the hall all night. Something's bothering him too, I guess.

Every few minutes, heavy dog footsteps from the porch to the laundry room, passing directly in front of my door. Floomp floomp floomp floomp floomp. A few minutes later, walking the other direction, floomp floomp floomp floomp floomp.

I got up and opened the door to let him out, but he didn't want out. I checked his food. Plenty. I checked his water. A quart low, but clean, and I topped it off.

Back to bed, and floomp floomp floomp floomp floomp goes the dog. I'm the prisoner, he's the guard. What is it, Lugosi? What are a dog's worries?

♦ ♦ ♦

On the BART ride to San Francisco, I sat next to some grumpy-looking yuppie, and chose that seat because he looked grumpy. Something was stirring within me. Gas. I let loose with three long and loud ones, and that pinstripped peckerwood said, "Excuse me," and decided he'd rather stand by the door.

♦ ♦ ♦

By now the next issue of Interview should be out, so the issue with a write-up about Pathetic Life is now a dusty back issue. Old news.

The magazine listed my address wrong, but the remarkable US Postal Service has so far delivered 21 mis-addressed envelopes to me at the right address. Thank you, USPS. I've mailed sample copies to 19 of those people. The other two sent such twit-headed notes, I'm ignoring them. 

Interview didn't mention any price, but most people know that stuff in America costs money. Exactly one of those 21 people included even a dollar bill, and only two even thought to send a self-addressed stamped envelope. 

One of the 19, though, sent me six bucks — three dollars for the freebie I'd sent her, and three dollars more for the next issue. One new subscriber, in other words.

If Interview is a gift horse, I am looking it square in the mouth.

From Pathetic Life #17
Monday, October 30, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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