Doggy Issues

 In Uncategorized

I have doggy issues.

They’re pretty severe.

So severe, in fact, that I bought this shirt off Amazon. I’m like the girl who hates her dad so much that she decides to have sex with all of his friends to get back at him. My issues have gotten to that point.

Understand that making this admission has not been easy for me. I’ve been tormented for years on whether to come out as my true self to all of my Facebook friends or to keep my doggy issues locked in the kennel. It’s a highly incriminating revelation, for in 2018, I may feel safer admitting that I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body than I do in sharing my doggy issues with the waiting world.

You see, there’s an old adage that says, “A dog is a man’s best friend.” This statement is troubling on a couple of levels. First of all, it’s extremely sexist in its noun choice. We just can’t have garbage like that promulgated in our society’s consciousness. Second, this statement doesn’t properly reflect the position of dogs on August 22, 2018. A more accurate adage would read:

A DOG IS A PERSON’S ONLY FRIEND.

Yes, somewhere in the evolution of the human race, dogs have become more important than people, and it fills me with a singular melancholy knowing that this is what we think of the state of humanity. We’ve grown to mistrust each other so much, come to assume that all people are inherently lying, cheating, skullduggerous little whores, that we shower all of our love, time, and money in accumulating and caring for as many dogs as possible. It makes me sad, and I just can’t get over it.

Now, don’t think that I’m stuck in 1999. I get that things change and evolution is an inexorable fact of life. I’m cool with that. I’m open to change. As they say, either adapt or die out, and I plan on ticking for a few more years, at the least.

So when I see everyone rushing to the “craft brewery” in the abandoned warehouse at the end of the street, I don’t sit around and yearn for a time when shitty-tasting beer was shitty-tasting beer. No, I go to that “craft brewery,” and I throw down $7.25 for a 10-ounce tulip on the recommendation of some pompous, dreadlocked woman. Sure, I could get a case of Miller High Life for the same price, but in 2018, you’re not cool unless you catch your buzz via a bearded man from Breckenridge’s bitter basement brew. So I choke it down.

I remember a time when tacos were an extra, the Bell’s version of french fries, the thing they forgot to bring out with your combination meal at any of the sit-down Mexican restaurants, causing the server to go back to the kitchen and bring the sloppily-constructed side out on its own tiny little appetizer plate 15 minutes after you were finished with the main course. But, apparently, in 2018, I’m expected to go out every Tuesday and spend $16.95 for three tacos of which I could eat an infinite many, all because restaurants discovered that if they serve their three tacos in a special crib and run with the whole “Taco Tuesday” idea, then they can charge $16.95 for 50¢ worth of food. But hey: What was I going to do with that money, anyway?

Admitting that I will never be as cute, loyal, or an all-around decent being as a dog?

I know the itchy eyes and swollen windpipes from the dander they deposit is desirable. I realize there’s no rush quite like coming home from a long day of work to the sour crap they’ve left on your Persian rug. And who doesn’t love those trips to the DMV to replace the driver’s license that they’ve rummaged through your personal belongings and eaten?

So I’ll wear this shirt.

This shirt will turn heads. It will elicit many cute comments. It will set many hearts a-flutter.

And fluttering hearts lead to romance. And that romance will be passionate, full of smiles, laughs, and wonder. The Snapchatting will be nonstop, and the heart emojis will flow.

They will flow for a couple of weeks, that is. They will flow until the first hint of disagreement arises. They will flow until she discovers that I never put down the toilet seat. They will flow until I request that we discuss our problems face-to-face instead of over Snapchat messenger. They will flow until she realizes that this shirt is completely sarcastic and that I’m nothing more than a devious asshole.

They will flow until she figures out that I’m a human.

She will vanish, never to be heard from again, lost in dogs, while I’m left with the sobering realization that I just don’t stand a chance in 2018.

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