Hello. It’s me again. Your ol’ chum HOTFLPT*. I know I wrote in yesterday. But I’m lonely. I’ve just beaten an old woman at a game of chess. I feel terrible. She called me a liar. And my feet hurt. They always hurt. I don’t know why they hurt. Maybe if I ask them a difficult question about socks they’ll stop hurting. Or maybe I should buy some socks. I don’t know. They’re idiots, see, even with two of them.
That rabbit salesman hasn’t turned up again, has he? I don’t know. It freaked me out, the way he made his heart do doublets. What kind of human does that? They’d have to be sick. Or bored, I guess. It was almost like he had two of them, actually. But that might just be the drink thinking for me.
I love it when it does that. All the pretty lights start sparkling in the moon, and then an old lady asks me if I want to play a game of chess. I like chess, I do. It’s like puzzles, all on one board. I fix them for her. But she never thinks I’m right. She says I’m a liar. Something about bishops. I don’t know. I tell her I can’t help it if they face the wrong way. They’re bishops, see?
She never does. I don’t know why she doesn’t. Ah well. She probably gets lonely too. That rabbit salesman was lonely. I didn’t ask, but I can tell. He charged £1.40 for a bag of chips. I gave him coppers. And he didn’t mind, either. He’s gotta be lonely. That or bored.
I wonder what he was doing there anyway. I’m not a nosy person, but come on. He’s got to be doing something. He didn’t look like Monday’s lot. Too cheerful.I hate Mondays, personally. They’re traditionalists. If Mondays stopped being unlucky, they’d get a better rep and maybe I wouldn’t mind them so much, but because they’ve always been lucky they’re never gonna stop being unlucky. They don’t believe in evolution. Or change. They’re probably nationalists too.
I don’t mind nationalists. It’s their beliefs that worry me. If everyone stuck to their own island we’d have nothing but webbed feet and more bulldogs. You might not like it when the neighbor’s cat does its business in the ol’ cabbage patch you’ve spent years tending to, but that doesn’t mean you should box of your entire garden from the rest of the outside world.
Buy your own cat. Point it towards their garden. Either you’ll sympathize with them for owning a pet that eats anything left on the side the moment it’s owner’s back is turned, or you’ll have them knocking on your door asking for a chat**. You could end up with your cabbage patch becoming the feline equivalent of a public toilet, of course, but that’s Mondays for you…
I might have to stop now, to be honest. I think I’m leaking again. My body’s like a sieve sometimes, and it’s always after a couple of Sasquatch Pills on the town. I honestly don’t know why, I just wanted to forget that rabbit man and his dodgy heartbeat. A couple of Sasquatch Pills should have done it good. But they haven’t. And I’m leaking again. I hate it when that happens.
I’m starting to loose sight now. That ain’t good. I must have flooded the world, the way I’m going. It’s wet. I’m going down, like. And what’s with the fish? I’ve heard some of them can fly, but there are loads of them here. It’s like a convention or something. Maybe that’s why the rabbit man’s here. Maybe this is his new trick.
Ha ha…I like this one.
**In which case you can either agree to give both of them away to kind loving people, or agree that neither of you will buy one in the future. It’s no good telling off the cat, because a) it won’t speak human and b) even it does, it simply won’t care. It might even laugh at you for trying.