I’m pulling a Candy Spelling as I’ve run out of ways to get through to you.
There is no way to sugarcoat this, so I’m just going to say it: Woman, you are WAY too involved in my life. First, you need to step away from my cornea immediately – and my cornhole too while you’re at it. No more swabbing my anus with lukewarm baby wipes. Dingleberries are not the end of the world, they are a fact of life. These little sneak attacks of yours aren’t helping my anxiety. Second: So I had a tete-a-tete with a hydrangea bush and scratched my friggin’ cornea. So what? We all moved past it. But what did you do? You aggravated the situation by taking me to the vet . You know how much I despise him. What I hate even more, however, is the way you stand by and do nothing while he violates me six ways from Sunday, sticking things in places nature never intended.
But your recent behavior is testament to the twisted dichotomy of our relationship. One minute, you’re in my face, plumbing my wrinkles with wet Q-Tips, the next, you’re completely oblivious to me and my suffering. For instance, in the lobby at the vet’s office when that ginormous black mutt sniffed my undercarriage and upended my hindquarters – I was humiliated. But did you do anything to stop this uninvited dirty wheelbarrow? No. Instead, you chose to pet the perverted pooch, ask what kind of dog he was and laugh when his owner said, “He’s part Lab, part T-rex.” Trust me, you wouldn’t think it was so funny if this amalgamation had his snout up in your junk.
Where were you when the receptionist -- after breathlessly declaring that I was ”the biggest pug she’d ever seen,” -- called four or five other personnel out front to gawk at my girth, one of whom took a picture of me. Jesus, Mary and friggin’ Joseph. How could you let that happen? I’m going to wind up in some freak show photo essay next to that stupid two-headed cat.
Then, just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, you allowed Dr. Sadist to dump fluorescent green dye into my left eye to locate my so-called corneal scratch. Now THAT was a true kick in the balls -- and I don’t even have mine anymore.
Perhaps the worst part, however, is that this was a horrible way to spend an afternoon. I could’ve been in the front yard, charging at neighborhood children and making them cry. I can never get that time back.
So now, you have to restrain me and put antibiotic goo in my eyes every two hours for the next 10 days. What a friggin’ nightmare. My advice to you: Let it go. Move on. Get a hobby. I’m chubby but can be pretty agile when people are chasing me with ointment.
Most Tepid Regards,