Dear Diary

My cats won't go near me though they do stare at me more than usual. I think they can smell my wound on its way south of cheese. I want a hip cat, a ship's cat, I want Lucifer Sam to be my lap cat.

Been taking Percocet for my pain. However, it makes me drowsy and lazy and so I thought I would try something more natural and easier on the stomach. I had to dig the pipe out of the junk on the top shelf of the closet. Mo-Nika, my Tai nurse, feather dusted away the dust. I sneezed. Ted Danson hissed.

I thought, once upon a time, that marijuana was great, that it was ambrosia sent from heaven, or after listening to Ben Harper, a gift from the earth. Oh diary, Percocet gives me an upset stomach but weed, well,it grows on the Tree of Knowledge and after eating of it's fruit last night I was hyper aware of the screws in my arm--piercing flesh, muscle, and bone.

If I could be doing anything I pleased right now, I'd be sailing on a modest sail boat at night, never more than fifty yards from shore. I'm sipping cold ones with Butch, a kind hearted Hell's Angel. Mo-Nika serves us Chinese trial mix in her own hand crafted oragami tea cups. On shore, the Robinson family is racing ostriches, tigers, and ponies. The moon is big and green in the sky and all the stars are out, orbiting planets and all. Under the table where Butch and I are playing chess, is Willow, a giant Huskie, snoozing, tired from all the excitement he shared on shore with Shania, the Robinson's bitch.

And there in the corner, out of the lantern's light, curled up in a black ball of crumpled, salty fur is Lucifer Sam...The hippest cat that ever did breathe.