This fat fuck is on my fucking balcony! Is there no respect!
There are a few things that are worrying me with Mook B in France and me alone with Mook A. I'll start with the lack of sleep I'm getting. I'm now in Mook A's bed for the duration of the other one's vacation and though it is as cozy as you could want, it gives on to the fucking kitchen and—worse!—he leaves the kitchen door open all night in case I want to walk about and get some water. But I'll be damned if I'm moving from the fucking bed in the night hours as, I tell you, there is a ghost in there.
There's one thing you should know about dogs. We know our ghosts. When you see us pricking up our ears or hear us whining or growling at nothing...think again! It isn't nothing. We not only hear and smell the spirits which roam about, we can sense them even when they're barely around. You've seen dogs reacting strangely to places which seem perfectly banal...well, it's the ghosts. Yes, yes, yes we know that you humans think it's all bunk but that's because you're stupid.
So, for now, I live with the damn thing and dread that it will try to make its presence felt even more. I'll tell you this...I get awfully thirsty at night and I'm really happy when the sun starts to rise.
Meanwhile, there is other craziness here. Mook A is starting to talk to me. I don't mean: "Get off the fucking couch!" or "Go lie down!" I mean chats. He has taken to watching two or three movies a day and although this used to keep him fairly docile and let me sleep (curled up beside him) lately he's started to get mouthy. He always talks at the TV (losing his mind when some right-winger shows up on CNN), but this is different. We were watching Appaloosa and he said, "Do you like Westerns, Leo?" (Note: he pronounces my name in English, Mook B in French.) I glanced up at him, thinking he was just jabbering, but he was actually looking at me, waiting for an answer like. "I don't usually enjoy Westerns," he went on, "but this one has Viggo Mortensen and Ed Harris and that is a whole lot of eye candy." Well, I should have known. I thought he'd shut up, but he went on. "I like Ed Harris for his eyes, which I noticed for the first time when he was in The Right Stuff. And Viggo...what to say about Viggo..." He sighed like a teen girl reading Tiger Beat. "I fell for him when he took off his shirt in Psycho. I was hooked. And I don't think he's married."
Well...a: Too much information and b: You can dream on about Viggo and you. But A went on telling me he didn't usually like Westerns 'cause the guys didn't take their shirts off but I can tell you this about Appaloosa: it was the gayest film I've seen since Brokeback Mountain. If Mortensen wasn't in love with Harris, I'll eat my Harley Davidson collar!
There is one good thing about Mook A's talking. When we're out walking, and because it's late autumn, the squirrels are everywhere and getting more aggressive and snotty with me. They've taken to taunting me on the street, running up a tree (just out of reach) and chittering at me...mocking me. That's when A steps in. "You fucking little coward!" he bellowed at one this morning. "Come back down on the sidewalk and face the music, you fucking tree rat shit. You'll be making all sorts of different noises when Leo's finished with you!" Then he turned to me and said, "Right?" I snerfed that he was quite right and he laughed his head off. You gotta like that about him, at least.
Meanwhile, we're hearing nearly nothing from Mook B in France. Apparently his sacred little iPhone is a piece of shit over there and that's after he paid to get it unlocked; a whole 250 Eurines or whatever the fuck those commie faggots over there use to buy their scag and child prostitutes.
Anyhoo...
Five days together, alone, and no one is dead yet...so I suppose that's good.
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