Meursault

Some crazy-ass Yorkshire terrier was barking at me as I was leaving the supermarket yesterday evening, where I got, in case you're taking notes, a tub of Haagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream (among other things, 'course). Ever since I quit smoking cigarettes a couple months ago, I experience - aside from strangers following me around all the freakin' time, even though I never see them - the need to substitutionally binge pistachio or strawberry ice cream every other day. Don't judge me, it gives me a sense of happiness only attainable through insatiable overindulgence. I'm nauseous, but I'm happy. I'm poor, but I'm kind.

Anyway, the toy dog was growling at me as if it were a badass rottweiler instead of a rat-like creature solely bred to become furry entertainment for the elderly and their taunting grandchildren. Lassie-lite was straining so aggressively at its leash, his eyes rolled back in his head each time he barked. Looked kinda freaky. "Benji seems upset," I quasi asked the owner, who, with eccentric amount of make-up and coordinated hairdo looked like a slightly less dated version of Elizabeth Taylor. "His name is Boo Boo," she replied inattentively.

And as I was standing in front of the supermarket staring at the deranged dog, listening to its constant high pitched yelping...a desolate-gray sense of sadness overwhelmed my mind. Walking back to my dorm I heard outside in the distance a wildcat growl. Two riders approached me and the wind began to howl.