Luckily, I was ten and only had two dollars and a piece of gum to my name, but it was the principle of the thing. Everything he wanted in the world, his parents got him: She treated it, a living thing, like some kind of disposable fashion accessory; of course, it had to match everything else perfectly. Each small exhalation assaulted my nostrils in rogue clouds of humid, day-old Eukanuba Small Breed. One that only pisses on my side of the bed, and hides under the couch for at least an hour when you turn on the blender. Every time I hear it I think of this spoiled only-child who lived on my court when I was ten.
His eyes closed in the kind of intoxicating bliss dogs must feel when you scratch them behind the ears. She paraded me around, the starched shirts getting stiffer every year, until she was through with me, on to some geriatric with a country club membership and a K. Spencer probably had a nice car, a convertible even. Everything he wanted in the world, his parents got him: I could see the two of them driving down the Pacific Coastal Highway on a sunny day, the wind blowing her blonde curly locks wildly through the air like some sort of beautiful sea anemone during high tide, Spencer probably sporting some tan, botoxed face accessorized with the kind of glasses I knew I could never make work. Its beady black eyes never once left my face, not even to shoot the most temperamental of glances toward the brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tart I shoveled down my gullet, brown thimble of a tail twitching in sharp, incessant spasms. She wanted the brown biscotti one. Matchbox cars, dirtbikes, birthday parties behind the home dugout at Wrigley. One that broke its leg jumping down from our two-foot-tall ottoman. He stopped panting and stretched out his neck to meet my fingers. Her obnoxiously large purse was white leather, purchased with the store credit she earned when she returned the sharp Coach bag I got her for her birthday. I always hated the banquets. It had some sort of nasty skin condition on its back Janice dropped two-hundred bucks a month to take care of. Davy—that thing now, not the leader of a cheap knockoff band who enjoyed more sloppy seconds than Bob Crane—sat several feet from my then twitching right foot, my slipper the only cushion it would feel when I punted it over our—my— breakfast nook. Each small exhalation assaulted my nostrils in rogue clouds of humid, day-old Eukanuba Small Breed. One that shits tootsie roll-sized turds impossible to find come poop pick-up day. Luckily, I was ten and only had two dollars and a piece of gum to my name, but it was the principle of the thing. One that only pisses on my side of the bed, and hides under the couch for at least an hour when you turn on the blender. He also wanted my Mickey Mouse wallet, and, of course, he got that too, snatched it right out of my room, the little shit. What kind of a name is Spencer, anyway? She treated it, a living thing, like some kind of disposable fashion accessory; of course, it had to match everything else perfectly. Every time I hear it I think of this spoiled only-child who lived on my court when I was ten.
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