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Day Twenty-Three (2).

No. The first person I’m telling I’m moving is Chaz, my roommate.

I know I’m going to move to Goochland, Virginia without even taking the trip there. Yes, Virginia, the home to not only one city named Threeway but home to another city called “Needmore”, which may explain why it has two Fourways. Hey, it’s better than living in a Waterproof, Louisiana, which seems spiteful towards Mother Nature, the bitch.

West Virginia is a freak show, by the way. They’ve got Left Hand, Pinch, Hoo Hoo, Big Ugly, Gay Bash…OK, I made that last one up so I’ll take responsibility for it. But I refuse to take responsibility for Big Chimney, West Virginia. I almost skipped over Boring, Oregon but I needed something the polar opposite of Surprise, New York. That’s where Al Queda could have really sealed the symbolism deal, by the way. Yonkers has always bugged me as Cat Elbow, which might as well go by Pussy Weenus, New York.

Where were we?

Another craigslist ad was already printed it out so I could show him I could be assertive while sober— a fallacy, by the way. So I knocked on his door with the ad folded up in my back pocket and my pants in my bedroom.

“Who is it,” he said.

“The fuckin’ Gestapo— Chaz, open the door,” I nazi’d. I heard the knob lock click and the door opened. Smoke billowed out of the room.

“Come on in,” he said— so I did.

“Sup bro,” he said, hopping onto his bed, reclining with his legs out, shoes still on, all unsanitary-like.

“When did you get the hookah?” I said.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“What about all this smoke?” I asked.

“What smoke, Charlie.” Fuck, Bald Knob, Arkansas.

“Well, I mean, the smoke is gone because you opened the door, Chaz-hands.”

“There was never any smoke in the first place,” he reasoned.

“Okay, great. I must be crazy.”

I forgot to mention Whynot, North Carolina. Probably because it’s so close to Tick Bite, North Carolina and so far away from Horneytown, North Carolina. Christ, I need to get back to the topic at hand. I mean, I can’t tell you which states Eighty and Ninety Six are in, but I can tell you that the City of Town and Country is nowhere near On Alaska, which happens to be in Wisconsin.

Seriously, where were we?

“Must be,” Chaz said. “What do you think about cats?”

“They’re shitty animals,” I didn’t say.

“I want to bring kittens into our apartment, he continued, “They’re free so I’ll pay for them.”

“Sure man,” I feigned, “I’m down for motherfucking kitty palace.” He must have missed the three months I had prior spent bitching about the smell of cat piss the previous tenants had gifted our carpets.

“You’ll love it once they’re here,” he reiterated.

And it’s like, it’s not like I don’t know how cats act after 23 years of sharing this planet with the inferior species. I know they’re capable of holding kitty grudges and making kitty casseroles out of their litter boxes. I also know they’re incapable of paying the bills as well as showing true compassion for something they can’t possibly kill. But if you’re more interested in the pros and cons of kitty ownership, then know that they are truly interested in licking their entire bodies from the highest and most obtuse place in your house. Also, most cats can’t sniff out cancer like the ones on TV because if they did then my mom might still be alive.

They are awful pets. Just a crappy species, on a whole. So Chaz brought them home this evening and he tells me he’s going to pay for their food, water, shoes, etc etc. Which is great, but it still doesn’t change the fact that kitty casserole is on the menu for the next 16 years.

Wait. No. Just three months. Because I’m out of here in three months.

Did I mention to you guys that South Dakota has room for Potato Creek and Pringle. And that Vermont found room for Breadloaf, Mosquitoville, and a little place known as Satan’s Kingdom?

I forgot to tell Chaz I’m moving. This crack thing needs to stop.