Drunken Letters From the Moon by Justin Bostian (12/10/2011)

Our first contributing writer to the blog is Justin Bostian. Justin was born in Mississippi during the days of Reconstruction, when the cold hard hammer of President Johnson made early life very hard for young Miss Bostian. However, she came to rise over great adversity and become one of the first inner-sexed individuals to ever graduate summa cum laude from the prestigious Middlebury College Writing Program. Not really. Justin while not only being devastatingly handsome (and all man), is a great writer. And like all great writers, he likes the sauce. This is the first of many of his segment titled "Drunken Letters from the Moon."

Fuck You, Cat: A Eulogy

We stand here today in the memory of a feline whose very presence left a palpable discomfort in the air. His angular, robot-esque face, his creamsicle coloring, his vacant, unnerving stare…there are so many reasons to celebrate his demise adoption.

It all started during the great move of 2011; hippies shifting from house to house, gathering up their collections of psychedelic posters, marijuana paraphernalia, paisley scarves and hole-riddled socks, excited at the prospect of a new home, a fresh start, a commune to end all communes. In the midst of packing, an affectionate cat wandered his way into a Humboldt Park slumhouse and wormed his way into our hearts. Lasagna, we called him, was mild, playful, even adorable. Little did we know that he would later trade in his friendly façade for something far more devious.

Here we are, six months later, wiping up the last of Lasagna’s misplaced urine, and I am not ashamed to admit that my body is tingling in anticipation; soon, very soon, I will never have to look at this fucking creeper again. No more falling asleep on the couch only to be molested by a cat with no boundaries. No more piss-soaked books or backpacks. No more yowling at 4:00 AM directly outside of my door. Now Sadie, the feline bitch queen of the house, can reclaim her throne. Now Rudy, our mildly retarded canine, can eat Sadie’s shit straight from the litter-box in peace. We can all let go a sigh of relief; we are safe.

It’s dawned on me that we may miss Lasagna at some point. After all, he is affectionate, still, and he does like to bat things around in the standard cute cat fashion. We’ve given him many nicknames and fictionalized his antics, from the hard-drinking loose-cannon cop Detective Chaz Meowmers to the wealthy, carousing bureaucrat Chancellor Meowmers. Sometimes we even fed him. But I ask, “Does that make it okay? Can cuteness absolve the sins of the past?” The answer, brothers and sisters, is a resounding “NO.”

Lasagna, I hope that in your next life you find comfort. I hope that the hipster girl who is liberating you from your opulent palace of a prison can show you the sort of unconditional love that you need. I hope she’s okay with all of her things being soaked in urine, and I hope she’s comfortable with your lack of respect for personal space. I hope you do well, cat, but from the bottom of my heart, you can go fuck yourself.