a chance of crazy-random

A novelist named Nancy kicks a pretty Siamese kitten across her apartment in downtown Seattle. It is a warm sunny day.  Outside birds are chirping but all she can think of is how pissed she is.  The fucking kitten is so cute!   Since she moved here from Atlanta to write the “great American Novel” she can't get into that Nabacov state of mind.   Nothing is dreary. Cobain even sounds upbeat in this scenery.  The closest she’s gotten to sad was feeling bad for sending that cute, little shit sailing across the room on her way into the kitchen.  He’s a bobtail  she rescued from the alley behind her apartment.  She starts whistling while chopping the carrots for her salad, and cuts her finger on purpose when she catches the tune from Beauty and the Beast coming from her lips.

I’m going to open a fucking vein!  No, I’m going to church! Maybe I could just chew my wrist open in that big pretty Catholic Church on 80^th street!

 She chews her salad with more fervor than necessary. Her teeth grind against one another.  She bites the inside of her cheek and the taste of blood mixes with her fresh, sweet carrot.  Iron and sugar, her nostrils flare.  She thinks or her mothers hands.  Warm and rough from years of working leather.  Nancy remembers her mom’s homemade lemonade.  She scrapes her knife across the surface of the lemon in her mind and sees the little spray of oil and acid glisten in the light.   Running back to the sun soaked desk in front of her window, she kicks the kitten again and falls into her sofa headfirst.  Laughing uncontrollably she cradles Che’ in her lap as she sits back at the laptop and writes about the torture of being a teen.  

            “I was thirteen when it all started leather, lemonade, and chicken blood.”