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from see you in hell—suckers

Catherine Paquette

Curiosity killed the cat, she said as she kills the cat. The cat is always being killed.
She nodded. “That was not very nice.” Her eyes whelm over with, first—relief,
then—guilt. Guilt, she thought to think, what an odd thing—as though she should
feel guilty for desire-expression*. But what if the desire is guilt and what if this whole
lot of nothing to make me bad. Oh thoughts plague her, like the cat, like the plague.
A cholera of sorts, her choleric mind. A day-in day-out sort-of-thing, these little guilts:
something always to be eaten by. Like this, crunch that, because where is the priest
when you need him? She goes to bed and feels guilty for thinking the thoughts she
thinks that her thought-bubbles are cholera, oh brain-bubbles burst!

* rejoice in hyphenations

Catherine Paquette

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