Friday, August 3, 2012

Cat Marnell: Cat in the Cave

You know those creatures that live in caves, that hang from ceilings? How much do you give a shit about knowing their daily lives?  Thing lives in darkness all day, sleeping and shitting down its back, then at night, flies outside, eats moths and field mice.  Excited? Here's a glass of scotch, have a seat.
Everyday I read NYTimes, CNN and Yahoo for whatever's up.  By Friday, I'm bored to death.  My equivalent of the Post, which I vow never to read, is Vice. Once a week I poop my way over to for news 15 year-old's beat off too.
Girls drinking their piss and brushing their teeth like old Pompei.   Little boys preparing for cryogenic sleep because they've got no friends now, and still won't when they wake up in 100 years.   On the home page of Vice this time I see a heroin addict.  She's peering out from behind a dumpster like an alley cat that just got caught licking the cum off a homeless mans pants.  She must be a heroin addict, and figures, her fucking name is "Cat".  She makes the lead singer of The Working Title look thick.  She's got that skittle hole-of-a-mouth with open sore cracks at its curves, and mouth pimples scattered about like an Occupy tent community.  Red bumps on a girl's lips in her late twenties means no shower after Ring Pop dinner or falling asleep with stranger's load on face.
I love Cat Marnell.  And I hate Cat Marnell.  I can picture her tiny bone-in vaseline frame and her dry pussy stubble-burnt and stretched from a night's grinding on random night-club dude with neck tatts and dick moguls because hey, she tells me about it.  She's self deprecating and apologetic and "feminist".  Sob-story, loaded boarding school Oedipus Complex-girl meets drug addict blogger struggling with identity.  Will you or I learn anything from her?  Absolutely not. To be honest, I'd thought she be over this stage already.  I'd be more understanding and buy her a vile if I knew she'd spent 6 years dating the wavy-haired kid with burgundy flying-duck chinos from the crew team who never really liked her. But, I don't think that's the case, why? Because she hasn't fucking told us yet.  She only blabs about the trash she's become, the filth she surrounds herself with, and whatever junk she's injected or vomited.  Therefore I'm not sold on her but I love her chatty welcoming tales about her dry lifeless clit that needs lickity spit.  I'll keep reading, of course I will.  That's what we do these days.  I'll read, in the hopes that Chance or Change or CHafe, whateevr the fuck that guy's name is that errantly knife stabs the air and opens his fish mouth only for food in pill form, either kills himself, or kills poor Cat.  Let's admit, we're all paying attention because we're wondering if this creature of the night's gonna make it back out of the cave to tell the tale, or if she'll just fall to her death into a pile of shit while sleeping.  

With love Miss Marnell, keep it coke'd up and dirty as fuck.

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