How does one set their pets on fire? I mean, animals are not

How does one set their pets on fire? I mean, animals are not usually flammable, right? Jeez. If I take away but one thing from working at the mental house it’s this: I am so fucking normal. My life is a piece of bland. And that’s okay. I am lucky and blessed to be such a crumb covered sloth, and with peace I bring you. I am not supposed to talk about my patients but dammit, I have to. Have to. Hafta. But here’s the deal, I am going to switch up the story a little bit so let’s play make believe. Pretend you are in a mental hospital, you know just kicking back after a long day of having your vital signs taken like 30 times and maybe you got a blow job from some chick who is on another floor outside in the smoking area when no one was looking. You want to play a game of checkers or something, it’s been a rough day. So you are all, king me, right? And then some girl comes over in a fit of self destruction and picks up your checker and eats it. That kind of sucked, didn’t it? The next night you might play a game of Sorry. Same girl comes around just when you have three of your pieces at HOME and you are feeling pretty good about maybe winning the game. She eats them. Coloring a picture but you can’t find the green crayon? She swallowed that, too. It’s non toxic, so that’s okay. I feel for this girl, I really do. Her whole life has been a complete and utter filthy ashtray with a piece of pork gristle right in the middle of it. It sucks. But everything sucks for those other people just trying to live their lives and play board games, too. It would appear that someone is always falling completely apart. Like holding a glass filled with orange juice that slips from your hand to shatter upon the kitchen floor. That is what I see every day. Don’t walk in here with bare feet! There is broken glass all over, sticky sweet juice droplets splattered on the cabinets and appliances. You know that you will never find all of the glass, that one day when you least expect it you are going to get a sliver or shard of glass in your heel. It will hurt and probably get infected. If you aren’t very lucky, it will become septic and you could die. And you could very well become a zombie and start eating brains, but that’s not too likely. Zombies prefer thighs. That juice that got all over the place? Sticky forever. The mind is a sticky thing. It collects bits and fuzz from old sweaters, dust bunnies that hide under the bed, closet monsters that flash inside of your lids as you are falling asleep. Once it gets stuck, it needs a lot of elbow grease to get it unstuck. Maybe a piece of that delicate lace tore apart while you were trying to pull. Lace doesn’t mend well. It just remains ragged and imperfect, if there ever was such a thing as a perfect mind.