Spiteful Things

There are some things in the world that exist only to spite me. I'm sure of it. Mosquitoes, Sid the hamster, for example.

I read outside sometimes when the sun starts going down. It's not as hot, the sky turns colors that don't seem to have any other place in nature, and, unless one of the drunks has friends over, it's relatively quiet and as serene as a view of a pool can be. But then the mosquitoes come, as unwelcome as rain on a wedding day, and they bring their ugly prehistoric-looking friends. Something about me makes them want to suck every last drop of my blood. And then there's the bugs that bite for no good reason. I sit there, on the deck, just reading my book and those little bastards just come and feast like it's Thanksgiving every fucking night. Why can't these bugs grow a conscience and feast on monsters like Glenn Beck, instead of me? I douse myself in bug spray that smells like lighter fluid, and still they bite, then I can't sleep because I'm seconds away from lighting myself on fire to make the goddamn itching stop. I'm sick of it. What purpose can they possible serve? They don't turn CO2 in to oxygen. They don't help things to grow. They are not beautiful or even particularly interesting. I gauge an insect or animal based on whether I would feel bad if I killed a baby version of it. Would I be devastated if I killed a baby polar bear? Yes. Even one of those evil black crows? Yes. A baby mosquito? Not at all. Living to cause my incessant itching is not a good reason to live. I think all mosquitoes should make a suicide pact just for sheer lack of meaning in life.

I must mention that at this exact moment my Saint Bernard, Harley, is trying to tunnel into my leg and my poor mutt, Bruno, is trying to shrink himself to the size of a dime because my dumbass neighbors are lighting fireworks and the dogs are walking around like death might sneak up on them at any moment. Bruno gets so scared his hair starts falling out. Harley tries to burrow into the space under tables less than half her size. I hope one of the neighbors lights himself on fire. Not enough to get burned too badly, just enough to say, "Wow, this is stupid. Maybe I should take up a hobby that doesn't involve using my money to buy shit to light on fire for aesthetic purposes." I hate fireworks. No purpose whatsoever. Much like domestic animals smaller than a cat.

That said, it is time to discuss Sid the hamster. He is an evil conniving thing. I bought him because I missed the giant furry creatures I had at home and hoped to be content with an animal that is not capable of anything except eating, running, sleeping, making noise, and shitting. I bought him because my roommate got a hamster and it was cute and furry, and was easily hidden from the CA that lived a couple doors down the hall. It was fun watching it run into walls in one of those plastic balls. Maybe it was all of the papers that I had due, but nothing in the world seemed more important than getting a pet hamster.

So I did. I christened him Sid, because Sid Vicious got his stage name when he was bitten by Johnny Rotten's hamster, named Sid, who was vicious. This should have been foreshadowing. Sid was a good hamster the first couple nights. Then he started chewing on his cage. Then his wheel started squeaking. Then he was up the entire night chewing and squeaking and I got no sleep whatsoever because this stupid fuzzy mass was not grateful that I had rescued him from a weird smelly pet store whose owner looked like he should have been named Herman or Gweedo or something. The cage he was in held 9 other hamsters. The cage I gave him was a penthouse suite in New York City compared to that place. I couldn't take him anymore. I took him home, rigged his cage to sit on top of my makeshift book case, and had my mom feed him while I was at school.

One thing they don't tell you when you get a hamster is how much you have to take them out and play with them in order to make sure they don't turn into psychokiller escape artists. Sid now tries to escape every time I open the hatch to give him food. He walks over to my fingers and looks like he would like nothing more than to draw blood. I was told he'd live for two years. My roommate's hamster died more than a year ago, and she treated that thing like it was her child. I hate Sid, but he's still alive and keeping me up at night. Maybe that's the key to living forever...make someone hate your existence and you'll never die.

I've thought about letting Sid go outside to fare with the squirrels chipmunks and other rodent-things. I've come close to it a couple times because he's just so damn loud at night, but my mother is strangely attached to him. Even though I hate him, I would feel a twinge of guilt because I let my pet turtle die when I was younger by forgetting to feed it. I still feel like a bad person because of it, and so Sid will have to live in a cage on top of my bookcase.

Now Harley and Bruno are sleeping on my floor, Harley is snoring like a bear with her head snug between her front two paws. I'm going to finish my book that the mosquitoes forced me inside with.