So I thought I would tell you that cats can indeed, speak and as much as she hides her smile behind me, Mom isn’t that much of an enigma once you get inside her head, and have a look around.
To the casual observer it may seem that she’s a fucking lunatic pulling furniture and other quality items from the dumpster and roadside piles, but hell, if she doesn’t rake in a hundred dollars each week, refinishing and selling the stuff.
It’s probably covered with fleas and ticks and poison ivy, too.
But you could have at least told us how many times we’re allowed to try and get said goat, nasty little farm varmint, milk dripping from ugly hanging teats into the mouths of snorting little baby goats, progeny destined to grow up like that from which they were spawned.
White cells, bandits in the breakdown of self-tolerance, form little mutinies, civil wars in veins, antibodies shredding DNA— life winds down, self lost to self; such cruel intents of proteins deaf to their master in ugly displays of wasting away.