I need new boots. My hackle is chapped and my feet are blistered and sore. I spent all morning yesterday shoveling snow and kidnapping squirrels while my erstwhile gardener slept in, assuming all the mess would melt away today. Well, it did, but no thanks to you, Mr. Tan Man. I’ll pay him a visit later: not sure which hammer I’m going to bring yet, but I’ll figure it out. So much to do today, so little time. When to write thank-you cards? It must’ve been someone’s birthday recently, and if not, who doesn’t love a surprise note from a woman you haven’t heard from in years?
I like to torture friends and family with emotional subterfuge and strategic shade. “SUSAN! Sooo sorry I missed your abortion! Hope you’re doing well. See you at Le Rouge next week!” That’s a made-up bar and I don’t even drink, but I want my friends to be envious of my clout and me. That’s just the way I am: a total fucking bitch. Deal with it.
Someone has to take care of the house while my husband is “away” (he’s sleeping off an opium binge—Bennington’s idea, natch—but I’m sure he’ll be up in an hour or two begging for sleeping pills and complaining about the “bugs” in his feathers and people in the walls talking about him). Taking a cue from Marie Kondo, my new favorite fascist, I threw out all of Rooster’s recent reading: the collected works of Anna Kavan, Baudelaire, Proust, and Dostoevsky, among others. Who needs that depressing garbage when you can look at cooking books and BDSM comic books?
Look, I like to be edified, and find a lot of freedom in chains and leather. It’s also a good way around looking suspicious to those that may be watching (not in the walls), I mean after all, how else could I keep Samantha the cunt peacock imprisoned in her own basement for five months? Sure, my training in [REDACTED] with [REDACTED] certainly helped in “subduing” her, but after the initial rush of blood and panic, you’ve gotta be able to maintain a certain level of evil genius to keep your captives jealous and even impressed by your technique.
Samantha isn’t even mad: she hates her husband, so I killed him and blamed it on MS-13. Did you know they’re recruiting animals now? No, not like Trump means—real animals, specifically ostentatious birds. You ever seen a pelican eat a peacock shredded down to the bone? So awesome. I wish I could’ve saved the pictures but I was advised that doing so would perhaps compromise my employment. Well, wait—what employment? I’ve been a free agent for months now. Consider this a veiled advertorial for gardening and assassination services, courtesy of your loveable neighborhood hen, Monica Quibbits. Say my name, bitch.
Sounds like Roo is rousing himself out of his slumber. I’m about to go Miss Piggy on his ass, hit him with a rolling pin and shit. Why not? He’s my husband, after all. This is how you set boundaries and rules: with physical violence and emotional abuse. It really works, trust me.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits