Fecal Fate

Journal Entry 2/15/2012. 6:32 a.m. (Recording…)

There he sits.  Half confidence half blatant stupidity.  “What do you want?!”  He stares back at me with those bored, feline eyes.  I love to oodle at your fuzzy, wuzzy, uhh

(Wynn gagged at the strange words.)

I didn’t think that… Was that me?  Heh, must’ve been a Freudian Slip.

I’ve been staring at my cat for longer than I know.  It’s like I woke up here in the living room, nearly naked and holding a cat toy, with the fuzzball waiting for me to play.  Come to think of it, I was dreaming about my cat.  Yeah.  In fact my cat woke me up somehow without touching me.  He willed me in here…

You’re insane… uhh, I mean, I’m insane…

What the fuck is going on here?!  That wasn’t me!  WHO IS IN MY BRAIN?!

I’m you, Wynn.  I’ve always been you.

WHAAA?!  (Wynn threw up a little down his chin and chest without entirely noticing; remnants of Chile Fest.  His cat just stared into his eyes.)  I don’t understand…  Claude?  Are you a telepathic cat?

HAHA!  You think I’m that sorry excuse for a multicellular organism?!  Give me some credit here, Wynn, I’ve been inside you for quite some time now.

Who are you?

(A picture flashed before his mind’s eye.)


Like I said:  I am you.  That is to say, you aren’t entirely in control anymore.  I’m the real T-Virus—Toxoplasma gondii.  And you’re my zombie, Bitch.  How does it feel?  I HAVE THE POWER NOW!

(Wynn slapped himself across the face.)  If you’re in control, why do I still have motor functions?

I bet you think you have a will, don’t you?  You are really doing everything because you want to, is that right?  You, Wynn, are a product of chemistry and subconscious like everything thing else.  You act the way you do because you’re human, you’re Welsh, and you’re parents are split up; your life is a reaction to your most primal instincts placed under the restrictions of cultural propriety.


Me, I’m just a protozoa with a doctorate in ventriloquism.  I’m living in this sorry sack of grey matter you call a brain and rewiring your subconscious.  I have literally forced your most basic neuro-clusters to restructure themselves for my bidding.  AHAHA!

(Wynn’s brain seized from the potent insanity devouring his grip on consciousness.  His eyes rolled back; his mouth began to foam.  The T-Virus continued without noticing…)

You see, when I was young, I was squeezed (squozed?) into a cat box.  And that hairy pawn grabbed me with his paws when he instinctively tried to cover the thick smell of his own shit.  He strolled right up to you and cutely touched your face and your mouth; he rubbed on your food and kneaded your pillows.  You really had no chance at all.

I traveled to your brain, your liver, and other organs.  I live in you, your friends, your relatives, in rats, in pigs, and cows.  I make you all want to die, not through depression, but through a subtle transition towards fear and irrationality.  Men grow on edge and become aroused.  Women become more outgoing and rule-abiding.  Humans in general eventually go schizophrenic and have ‘accidents’, so to speak.  Rats develop a strange love for cats, and feel the need to run to their death rather than hide.

I am the author of all this destruction.  The schizophrenic panic of the Victorians (the Jekyll-Hyde syndrome)—me.  The fact that you’re 2 to 3 times more likely to end up in a car wreck—me again.

I do this because I need back into the cat in order to reproduce, to get my freak on… asexually of course.  I want the cat to eat you.  Shit, the cat wants to eat you.  He doesn’t even know what I do for him; the depth of our kinship is single-cell deep.  Do you understand?

I’m like a remora that pulses waves of stupid into other fish so the shark can eat them, except I can successfully commandeer the most incredible computer on the planet.  I can hotwire a brain as well as experience, culture, and biological development combined. How could you ever take full credit for your thoughts, for your actions and feelings.  I’m as phantom as serotonin, if serotonin were an alien life-form that bursts out of sand-covered poop.


(Just then electro-signals shot through Wynn’s brain, causing him to feel like running.  His body dutifully following its orders lunged forward and bolted right through the apartment window and out into the alley-way.  His body flipped end over end as it dropped four stories to his pavement grave.  On impact, his head ruptured, scattering brain chunks like gobs of red and grey slopping from an old, fallen paint can.  The neighborhood cats slowly gathered around, feasting on this bountiful smorgasbord sent from the heavens.  They howled like strangled violins at the moon as they fought over Wynn’s carcass.)

And the T-Cycle begins again…

Cat Pooping Picture by Jabiz Raisdana and Feline Raving by John


3 responses to “Fecal Fate

  1. Looking at that cat pooping picture, I think that cat is unhealthy. That poo looks like a hot, spicy mess. Poor thing.

  2. Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you that I think you very skillfully summarized the chemical/cultural determinism ideas. Your short sentences easily squeezed (squoze?) a lot of heavy ideas in there.

  3. Pingback: https://dylangers.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/fecal-fate/ | The Ambiguity of Reality·

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