Alfie on Boston

Why do we keep doing this?

It's 11:13 on a Tuesday night and I can't get comfortable on this couch (although it's plush and I'm soft) because I keep hearing the question - why do we keep doing this?

Maybe you're wondering what I mean. Maybe you know.

Maybe looking at me you see how I wrestle - attempting and failing, attempting and failing, attempting and failing yet again to make sense of things.

In Boston three people die, many are injured, and for what? We ask ourselves why do we keep doing this and then change our Facebook profile picture in solidarity.

We change our Instagram profile picture in solidarity.

Our Tumblr picture in solidarity.

You catch my drift?

And what does it do?

Still these people are dead, still we have the question ringing through our heads why do we keep doing this why do we keep doing this except some of us try to fight the sting of it by asking why do they keep doing this as though there ever was a they, as though we were ever anything but us.

Us, not even you humans, us, life. Us, breathing.

Us, the pulsing and the expanding and the rocked with anguish for that which is beloved. Water, air, food, drink, love, hope, touch, abstraction abstraction abstraction, and then the face you dream, eyes filling with emotion - there, that is all of us - there, that, your most loved, that is all of us.

When we are met with tragedy and we react with anything less than empathy we become the villains. When we don't allow ourselves to know reality; the hard, inescapable fact that people die like this each day. From pipe bombs and from unmanned drones and from landmines and friendly fire and poison and lack of nutrition and lack of care and when we see these deaths, and instead of seeing other living creatures, we see numbers, then we have truly numbed ourselves to what it means to be alive.

Numbers, numb - it seems to me no small coincidence the words so neatly twin.

When we say ____ number dead we move from identification, from us to dehumanization - I need a better word - automation-ization of the living - and then the crack crack cracking of bones and the spraying of blood take on a pixelated blur that allows us comfort.

Oh, it was them, those machine-interlopers, not mine-made-of-my-flesh-my-heart, so let them die!

Which is not what I am seeing when I see everyone with their Facebook profile pictures showing solidarity with the fallen, but it is what I hear with the frenzy of hate-talk.

Imagine suffering.

Imagine a suffering so intense all you can think of is spreading it.

This is how so many of us feel. Every day. To deny this is to lie and also to make ourselves less safe. Instead, we must face the inherent inequities of our world, and more than that, we must do something about it. We can't just sit at our computer, watching Jenna Marbles (who I love, btw, even though she has never yet mentioned Wuthering Heights), and ask ourselves wonderingly why do they keep doing this.

Why do we keep doing this. Every moment unreflected is a contribution to the magnitude of suffering the world over - and you know this, you know this. This is why you don't want to know how hotdogs are made.

It is why I change the channel when a Human Society commercial comes on.

And yes, it's easier to not face it, but only easier in that moment we turn away.

Every single moment after that we are damning ourselves, our world, our children's world, and any beautiful, beloved thing you can think of. We damn them with our love of convenience. With our good intentions.

Why do we keep doing this?

Because we believe there to be a they.

Slippy is a Murderer!!!!!

Hello you know me my name is Slippy Slipper my full name is actually really long if you want me to I'll tell you it it has all my titles that I earned from schooling and such it is: Jefferson Cornelius "Slippy"Pawsley AA PA BA PhD Esq.

My PhD is what I'm most proud of and it's what helped me think of my very sneaky thoughts which I'll tell you in just a minute hold on and let me establish some context!

This is MR the prison guard the one who keeps us here and who sometimes sometimes sometimes gives me things like chicken meatballs and other stuff like rice and cheese and things which I eat when I put them into my mouth and chomp down on them slowly and quickly the both because then I can slowly taste them quickly all over my tastebuds!

But lately she's been getting on my nerves because she says no no no to chicken meatball and she won't ask her sister Anna to come over and make me a Slippy Cake which is a thing only her sister Anna knows how to make and but she won't do it because she got meaner and more mean and meaner more than that.

Sometimes I look at her and I'm angry and I'm hungry too. And it's her fault for all these feelings I have inside me like the buzz buzzing of flies around a rotten fruit in the backyard. I could've eaten that fruit if my legs took me faster where my nose wants to go! Stupid MR. Stupid flies. Stupid legs.

But then I had my sneaky idea which shows you how smart I am and you'll see when you look at all my diplomas which prove it! 

Dr. Slippy!

Dr. Pawsley! No one calls me that but they do sometimes. My smart idea here it comes.

Maybe MR. Maybe she's tasting good too?

So being my smartest meant knowing to approach her carefully. I licked her wrist to see how she tasted and to calm her down gently with my soft doggy demeanor.

It worked.

Once she was calm I worked on hypnotizing her which is a thing I learned when I was getting my PA which is a good thing to have if you're a dog who wants to make that money!

Then she got thoroughly hypnotized and I knew my trap was foolproof and it was set and soon it would be like MR was Alice tumbling down a rabbit hole except that rabbit hole would really be down my throat into my belly when I munched on her as a snack that would probably be tasting a lot like a chicken pot pie I think.

That's what I thought to myself anyway as I readied the attack.

She couldn't really fight back because of my good hypnosis work and so I got her on her face thinking yes yes this is it Slippy and it was it when it was it which was great for me because that's what I wanted anyway a nice evening snack!

Then I pelted her with dog pain raining from the dog sky of dog justice and prowess and she cowered and cried but I showed no mercy because I hadn't had anything to eat since dinner which was at least seventeen thousand years ago!

Really. My stomach was taking on its own personality making my paws slam down again and again it was like I had become a monster I had no control and my stomach it just growled and growled I was fierce.

I was a force of nature.

I was getting hungrier and hungrier.

Then it was all over and she was dead. Time for my feast! I thought to myself. I also thought to myself this: mwah ha ha which is I think how you make a villain laughing sound and if it's not please imagine however it's supposed to be spelled like that's how I spelled it because that is what my laughter sounded like it was full of malice and really evil and mean because that's just how I roll.

I'm a hardcore dog. From the streets of Miami. Survived a hit and run and so you think I'm going to let a tummy rumble bring me down? No. Dr. Pawsley plays for keeps, okay? And so be frightened of me!!

Although I do wonder if my propensity for violence speaks any of the love I lost as a puppy the years I spent trailing humans hoping one would pull me up into her arms and cradle me home.

Maybe it speaks of a heart too ravenous to accept any but the most intense of love - that which is all consuming - literally - and so I have to use hyphens to show you how very very very serious I am and now I am now now now feeling contrite and everything for really truly eating MR to death because my social commentary can be as deep as Luco's.

But I have to tell you one more thing of importance that I think you'll like hearing if maybe right now I've brought you to tears with this missive of emotionality and pizza yearning.

April Fools'.