Marcy’s Secret Life

Because not only am I cat lady, but a cat lady with waaaaay too much nervous energy in her brain, I used to keep a LiveJournal for Marcy back in the day (one of approximately 12 LiveJournals that I used to ghost write; I was way more insane in my 20s, apparently).

I thought today would be fun to share some tales from her secret life. Because I am mourning, so you all must be sucked into this hole with me. CLEARLY.

(On the real, don’t worry about me. I will mourn and grieve and post pictures and stories about her and then I will be able to accept the fact that she is gone and in peace, and we can all move on with our lives. Just….give me a few decades  weeks.)

Anyway, here are a few entries from the Diary of Marciples von Schlugenhusen.

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December 9th, 2004: Marcy Has a Necklace

I would like to share a photograph with you mortals. I think it will paint a vivid picture of my superiority.

Here, you can see I am modeling exotic bling. How did such fine jewelry come to be in my possession, you ask?

The year was 1923, and Father had presented me with an all expense paid trip to visit Uncle Adolf Hitler while he was imprisoned in Landsberg. I was fresh out of Infernal Boarding School, which was situated in a hidden location in a small Bavarian town. But that’s a tale for another time.

Uncle Adolf was filled with jubilance upon seeing me enter the visiting quarters. We sat at a table and immersed ourselves in deep heated discourse about Jews, Communism, making dolls branded with the swastika just in time for the holidays. Oh how my skin burns when I think of Christmas, but I was always out to make a quick buck back then. I can recollect Uncle Adolf filling my head with ideas and outlines for his book, Mein Kampf. It is a very little known fact that I was his ghostwriter. I am currently in the process of schooling my daughter Wilhemina of all the glorious (some humans may argue that the proper word is ‘glorified,’ but they are ones who were too imbecilic to fully understand the genius of my Uncle) musings procured from that volume.

Before my visit came to an end, Uncle Adolf insisted that I take this jeweled pendant with me, as a keepsake.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have demonic spirits to conjure.

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August 2005: Where Marcy Gets Sea Monkeys

She gave me Sea Monkeys as a means to teach me “responsibility.” Is she kidding? I thought that apprenticing under Pol Pot in 1976 was an exercise in responsibility.

No? Well, then I suppose staring at a container of swimming parasites will do the trick.

Oh, marvelous! Now I’m barraged with memories of my time with Pol. I’ll never forget the day we sat on a tuft of prairie grass, picnicing on a buffet of Cambodia’s finest examples of cuisine, such as Nim Chow and sticky rice with a succulent mango curry, when Pol mused out loud that he was unable to think of a plan to get his genocide agenda underway. Licking the peanut sauce from beneath a nail, I lazily suggested starvation. That Pol, he went wild for my idea!

Anyway. This lady is crazy if she thinks I can be trusted with this, although there’s not really anything there for me to sink my teeth into–do these floating germs even contain blood?

She keeps pressing my face against the container walls and cooing about how happy I am that I have my very own pets, when really I’m smacking my lips and imagining lounging pool-side, slurping down a mouthful of brisk Sea Monkey water through a twisted straw. Mmm, quenching.

But in all reality, I give it one day before that kid Lucky knocks it off the windowsill. Bye bye, Sea Monkeys. I’m not your baby-sitter.

July 2006: Marcy Reminisces About Her Past 

Oh diary, you which hold the annals of my life, how sorry I am to have neglected you. The days are long and exhausting for me lately; the heat unbearable. It brings back laborious memories of traversing the torrid Sahara, en route to Cleopatra’s abode for holiday. My caravan would parlay to see who would have to attack passing nomads in order to acquire purloined provisions. The taxing journey was worth it, for upon arrival, Cleo would snap her cat o’ nine tails at her bow-legged servants, who would in turn scamper off to draw us a bath of warm milk and urine.

How did you think I kept my skin so supple?

Listen to me, rambling on and on about dear Cleo.

I was inspired to pull out some dusty photograph albums and oh how the memories flooded back when I brushed the dust from this photo:

Julius Caesar himself had commissioned one of his own Roman artists to capture our likeness on that balmy, languid afternoon. I remember it so fondly, as it was mere moments after I fed a baby to Cleo’s pet asp, Spot.

But alas, these are but memories, and then I remember that is the 21st century and am treated as nothing more than a mere house cat.

And for the record, that new half human who lives in my house has very meaty thighs in which I long to sink my teeth.

*****September 2006: Marcy Endures a Post-Baptism PartyThat damn child was — dare I say? — baptized on Sunday. Can you imagine? She and all of her disgusting friends gathered around an altar while a vile priest (I spit!) anoints the small human with stinky oil and holy water (oh, I shudder to think!).

I am quite positive that her friend Brian played a hearty part in this affair, being affiliated with Christ-like things and all. To think I used to let him lull me to sleep with the soothing aural candy which would pour out from between his lips. A pox on him, I say.

And then, after gathering holy dust all amongst the fibers of their clothing, she and all of her cohorts came back to my house to “break the bread,” as the sniveling Catholics say. The very flesh beneath my fur seared from the exposure to the leftover church-y particles being circulated throughout the air I breathe.

Oh, Father in Hell, I cried out your name and plead for mercy.

And then came the despicable display of affection bestowed upon the small human. People waiting their turn to lift the hefty sack of flesh into their arms, pretending that they do not care about the bag of shit in which he was swaddled. Why do humans get such joy in having saliva drizzled onto their clothing, straight from the mouth of another human? It is pure repulsion.

But then an odd turn of events occurred: Attention turned onto myself.

“That is the evil cat!” people would exclaim at random.

“Do not pet that cat! She will hurt you!” others would warn their friends.

I took this as my cue to saunter around the room, tail held up with pristine stature. I would stop at the feet of the oblivious and emit melodious purrs from my mouth, willing them to reach down with one of their flesh-padded palms for me to strike.

And strike I did, with unrelenting zest. Soon, the crowd forgot all about the child, and he retreated to his cage for an afternoon nap while I worked the room, scavenging drops of vittles as I went.

All in all, it turned out to be a good day.

*****

 November 2006: Marcy Is Thankful for Things

Currently, I’m enjoying the serene quiet now that the child napping. I really wish she wouldn’t leave the door to his bedroom shut, because I’d love to go in there and prove the folk lore true. Nothing beats baby breath for breakfast.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, yet another holiday that Father and I do not celebrate because the pilgrims were God-fearing assholes. Yet, there are things in this world that I appreciate.

What am I thankful for, you ask, dear diary? I am thankful for pestilence, poverty, and pollution. I am thankful for denigration, dismemberment, and death. I am grateful for W., war, and wholesale murder. Terrorism, thieving, and Tiananmen Square in 1989.

But mostly, I am thankful for the few hours of solitude I’ll get to lavish tomorrow when that bitch takes her wretched son to her grandmother’s house for dinner. I’ll get some privacy to work on my Nazi mural and some leftover turkey to gormandize once they return.

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Marcy’s Album Cover

I am a singer.

Yes, it’s true. My producer has likened me to a demonic Kylie Minogue, but I have moves like Beyonce. The only reason I am telling you this, diary readers, is because over the weekend, my likeness was captured in such a sultry pose, with slats of sunlight showering my fur, that I knew in an instant it would be my album cover.

Behold, Von Schlugenhusen’s Fuck My War, Kiss My Hate.

I have the skeletons of a few songs in demo-form, but I am not willing to share those with you, diary readers, for fear of a world-wide Internet leak. I’m still waiting to hear back from Dimmu Borgir and Mortiis, as I propositioned them for cameo appearances, and Charlie Manson promised he’d record something in the spoken-word vein, of which I can mix snippets into interludes. Then it’s off to Norway to record.

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October 2007: Marcy Makes a List

1. A piggy bank

2. A safe for my drugs and medallions

3. Stew

4. Winter parka

5. Stepstool

6. Guitar strings

What are: Things I can use that baby for after I slaughter him.