Every morning I come in Clarksville Pike and I always feel bad for the rest of the city that they do not. Because not only do you get to see the whole downtown from two really cool perspectives, you see shit that makes you feel good about living here. Women walking hand in hand. Young men with pants so baggy they walk like it’s a pursuit that requires careful consideration. A woman with a huge joint, smoking and walking down the street.
I don’t know.
It just makes me happy.
Warning: This post is about to contain disturbing facts and speculation about a dead rabbit. You may want to skip it.
There’s a dead rabbit under the glider out front. Not a small bunny, but a dead grown rabbit.
I’m refusing to go look at it, but the Redheaded Kid had to describe it in detail every time he came back from a smoke.
The question is, “Where did it come from?”
The orange cat has been catching moles and mice and there’s been evidence that he might have caught a bird. But a grown-ass rabbit?
I have to tell you, I’m more likely to believe that coyotes have left us a gift.
As a side note, y’all have ruined me, bloggers I read. Because I used to be a girl who would throw around “lame” as a way of meaning “stupid” like there was no tomorrow. And now, I read it and think “Well, that’s an unfortunate choice of words, if you want to be taken seriously.”
So, in this post, I wonder why we don’t yet see female politicians fucking interns. My one comment thinks my post is “lame.” I took the opportunity to respond that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, but not in so many words.
And in this post, I do the math and discover that someone’s found a way to make blogging lucrative. It’s just not the bloggers.
Tiny Cat Pants 