THE PLACE. THAT PLACE. THERE.

My apartment mate channels for stuffed animals and imaginary creatures. Which lets her say things that normally, being shy, anti-social to the point of hiding, and Asperger like you wouldn't believe, is an outlet.
As is highly necessary.

It's a form of communication AND self-expression.
At times, surreally real.

Advice to a little girl hamster who visits while the grown-ups are away:


"If you have to, kick him in the hurty place."


This is wisdom indeed. Almost as good as my doctor, specifically talking about Fluticasone Propionate Nasal Spray USP: "aim for the eyes".
More generally, that's damned good life advice too.

I'm sure if she has to, Clarissa will indeed kick Snidely in the hurty place.
She's been taught to take her care of herself by her grandfather.
And trained by the cat. With other roomies.


There are other times when the utterances in this apartment are not nearly so profound. Both of us happily and monotonously repeating the phrase "money can't buy you class" as if possessed, while I was fixing myself dinner. Look it up. Some cow-roach in New York wrote the song.
That's almost all there is to the lyrics.
It redefines dreadful.

Should've been kicked in her hurty place.

She might've sounded better.

Or sung less.



I think her hurty place is somewhere in the Hamptons.



Always make sure you know where the hurty place is.





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