Last night I frightened poor Raleigh with my flatulence. I shouldn’t really write about this in the Journal, as knocks off any remaining rockstar mystery, but… really, I don’t revel in that bullshit anyhow.
At the moment, Heather and I are sitting in the Pheasant Creek Coffeehouse in Apex, North Carolina, listening to a guy singing a song called “I’m Not Gay”. It goes “I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I like girls, I’m not gay”…. go fig.
In any case, back to what I was saying. It was 3am and Heather had gone to bed, and I knew that I was about to have some gastrointestinal issues, so I stayed downstairs and entered the Dark Room of the Sith. Now, we were staying with Raleigh, and Raleigh’s owners, Nicole and Lee go to bed at 9pm and midnight, respectively. Raleigh sits up with nothing to do but chase beetles and pine… here is someone behind a closed door that could be his frend…
I’m sitting, squeezing, and the door starts shaking, and there’s a pitiful mewing, just to let me know it’s definately not Heather. I figure, I’m lonely, I didn’t bring a book… I let Raleigh in just as my internal gurgling reaches a fevered pitch, and Raleigh peers in timidly. Then there’s a … a bad noise. I didn’t see Raleigh again for the entire time we were in Concord. Sigh. Poor cat.
