When the blues find where I’ve been hiding,

They pile on like puppies—

so damn excited to see me.

These days, I’m into cats, brother.

You know, maybe one will rub up against me,

once in awhile, or meow enough

until I give it what it wants—

usually my food and then, my appetite.

But the dogs, man…

they just don’t stop—

yipping, nipping, slobbering—

all fucking over me,

and then I’m down for the

three-to-five-day count.

I try to rationalize—“They’re just puppies. They’ll get bored and go away.”

I try stoicism—“I can’t get bothered by the uncontrollable.”

I try booze—the puppies just lap that shit up.

But they always sniff me out!

After a few days enjoying the sunshine,

I guess my contented stink gives me away,

‘cause the cute, fucking, little, tail-waggers

always, always fucking find me,

the little shitheads.

First rule of depression:

We don’t talk about depression.

I wonder if Paper Street Soap Co.

makes Existential Stench—

extended release version, of course—

its scent so cloying and heavy, it’ll

hide my temporary joy.

Crap! Here they come, the adorable little bastards.

Shoving their tongues up my nose, in my mouth,

and one—I’m sure his name is Cletus—

is so glad to see me, he’s going to pee on me, gah!

Get away from me you goddamn mutts!

————————————–

David J. Schast called us from Elkins Park, PA.

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