Denial

(another poem from days ago. about gia’s little world of denial. it’s nice there.)

The pigeons are screaming outside my window
it’s driving my fat gray cat crazy.
He’s not really fat, he’s big furred,
he likes to sit on the windowsill
alone, talking it all in.
He’s very affectionate sometimes
head butting me,
he is himself
loves me for what I am.
He’s the most perfect boy I know.
We live in the middle of the city

there’s almost always something going on
I can hear it through my closed blinds.
Maintenance men removed the air conditioner
pigeon eggs were on the ledge right outside.
It’s seven months later and they’re still there
just as perfectly preserved as the day I first saw them.
This is a nice place

heat and hot water are included
I keep it warm and cozy.
My friends are all in my computer
the television is good company.
I’m very happy here.

King of the Castle

A poem from my late cat’s point of view. I wrote it for a class assignment about six years ago, before he passed away.

Sebastian ©Tammy/Rubicat.com

Don’t call me Pookie, or Puffy Boy, or Angel Face
-do I look like a little prissy girly cat to you?
I don’t think so.
That would be my sister
or whatever you want to call her,
she’s not my sister.
Pfft sister.

I am Sebastian.
You’re the one who gave me the name
that day you came because you wanted a friend.
You had a boyfriend
but wanted me so when this one left
you’d have something left to love you.

You didn’t like the name Buddy,
the name they assigned me when I came in.
I don’t care, it’s not like that’s my real name.
I don’t know what my real name is.
I don’t know why I was there,
why the ones I loved left me.

I was sleeping quite soundly in my litter box.
I used all the energy I had to lift up my head
and turn to look at you
standing there with this big goofy smile.
You wouldn’t go away, just stood there staring.
I thought maybe if I ignored you, you’d disappear.
Pfft. I turned back around and pretended to sleep.

I lived under your bed for a week,
you’d lie on the floor
lifting the bedspread to talk to me.
Eventually I got hungry,
you obviously weren’t going to get out of the way
so I came out.

It’s been three years since then
and we’re not living in an apartment much bigger
than the cage I met you in.
What you call a closet
is my own special place-
I get very cranky if you open the door all the way.
At night I might allow you to sleep on my bed.
I wait by the door for you to come home,
make like I’m looking
for the opportunity to sneak out
then run and hide in my special spot
so you’ll never know
I’m happy you’re here.

I Don’t Need You

I don’t need you to put me down
to wreak havoc on my thoughts
my feelings
my head
my heart.
I can do that very well myself
so much better than you can
thank you very much.
I am far more creative,

I’d use names much less cliché than bitch
far more intuitive,
use better reasons than “you hate her cause
she’s thinner than you,”
far more intelligent,
my nasty notes to you would be more grammatically correct
than you will ever be.

What you say
about me,
what damage you can do,
can’t even come close
to the harm I can do myself.
So then why is it

that with every single word you say
I start to believe you more and more until
I become those words.
So maybe I have let you see into me

maybe I have shared myself with you
maybe you know me better than anyone ever has.
But what gives you the right
to dissect me, to turn me inside out,
to say these things,
and on top of this all, to make me believe you.
I have given you that right.
I have no one to blame but myself.
And I hate you even more for that.

sex and the city: why i don’t do chick flicks

Oh my god, talk about touching any fear and emotion I’ve ever had. Okay, that may be the point of the movie, to bring the viewer in. But that’s why I never go to “chick flicks.” I hear good cries over movies is  therapeutic, but if I’ve already done my own crying over facing my own situation, I certainly don’t need to be reminded of it. And I certainly don’t need to pay over $10 to live through it again, surrounded by people I don’t know, reminded by watching a scenario based on people whom I will never meet, in fact, who aren’t even real people. Might as well put razor blades in my candy, too.

This is not directed at SATC itself. I’ll admit, the characters were fun and parts of it were really funny. But because of who I am, I can’t get past the, let’s list it:

girl’s husband cheats on her

girl loses herself completely in a relationship

girl gets stranded at the alter

girl sleeps through half her honeymoon, which she actually goes on with friends because she has been jilted

man is a immature wuss from hell whom i would want to bitchslap until he fell over

and then someand don’t forget the whole conversation of how once you are over 40, if you’re not married, you have no chance

The beauty of this movie is all of this is very realistic. And the ways the friends stick together incredible. All of this very true.

But there’s my problem. I don’t like true. I see true every day. Out of that list, there are only two things I haven’t experienced. True doesn’t work for me. Especially true depicting hardships.

Depict the hardship of a vampire sucking out someone’s blood or a serial killer especially if it’s a Bianchi, woot, bring it on.

Give me fire (fire! fire! fire!). Give me explosions. Give me blood. But give me an every day situation in which someone’s heart is broken in a situation that has mirrored something I’ve experienced–give me the car  keys, I’m leaving.

Which I almost did but I kept hoping for more funny parts (which did come, as well as a happy ending for all). But I was with a group of girls and how weird would that have looked?

That said, it was a really good movie. If you’ve followed the show, you’ll love it. Even if you haven’t and you can handle those kinds of movies, you’ll love it.

If you’re me, well then, you might want to stay home, make your own popcorn (lowfat even), and see if the Harold and Kumar movie is on cable again.