There is a cat named Bartholomew in my head. He is perpetually shedding and does not get off the furniture when I ask him to, even when I say please. I think I might be a dog person.
Paper bag aspirations crumple under binders and folders at the bottom of my back pack. I misplaced my lucky pencil but my drawings are no worse than they always were. I have started to question the legitimacy of my lucky socks.
A cloud of November moths flew out of my musty rain boots when I opened my closet. I caught one, ripping its wings by accident. In my state of guilt, I agreed to let him crash on the couch until he got back on his feet. He healed three weeks ago but always throws out the real estate section of the newspaper before I get up in the morning. I just can’t stand the way he puts empty cereal boxes back in the cupboard instead of throwing them away. I fear he’s becoming fond of me.
Saturn’s rings look great on my finger, but I’m just not ready for such a commitment. He is so far away and he’s losing more than I could give him, his gravity is not happy with the changes he’s making. I knit him a hat, but it turns out patchy and yarn-ripples poke out all over the top. He puts it on, telling me he loves it. I have not seen him wear it since.
Update: I lost one of the lucky socks. I am wary that my left foot is jealous of my right one, but hopefully she will feel better when it’s her turn to wear it.
The bookshelves in my stomach rot and sag under the density of miscellaneous novels I devour every day. I apologize to my doctor and look into her eyes while I shake my head. In this case, dieting would surely mean the end of me.
Bartholomew slips on his moist paws and falls into the soggy lining of my skull. He sighs and settles into the sludge.