he would walk on the toes of his pincushion feet, making himself lighter, bunching up his body to make him smaller. His tail is pointed upwards, his whole body is straight. In the darkness he would hide, concealing himself through his black stripes that blend wll in shadows. He is one with the shadow, and all that are visible are twin orbs of light green. Pupils are dilated.
He prepares for the attack.
At the last moment, he would jump with a growl, his claws out, fur standing on ends. He would cling to my nearest foot, scratching me, biting me,mewing with that same mew that he first gave me. A mew of pity. Asking for food, perhaps. Maybe attention. I didn't really know.
All I knew was, I could get used to that. My skin all sore and scarred, bloodied and wounded and possibly infected with rabies, I'd just laugh that off.
Really, I could get used to that.
I just couldn't get used to my cat being dead.
***
I was supposed to make a swansong for him, only now he's real dead. It was supposed to end with We miss your moonwalk. We miss your career.
The king of pop is dead.
He's dead, and I can't believe it.
This ain't one of those I'm-kissing-your-ass-and-blowing-your-dick-because-you're-dead thing. I already did that. When he was still alive.
Such energy.
Amazing voice. Great collaborations. Incredible music videos. Michael Jackson gave everyone their money's worth.
Sad that he had to die as a monster who allegedly raped a kid. Now, all those rumors can be finally put to rest.
Rest in peace, michael. You earned it. You did a great job.
17 June 2009
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