I have been living with Brenda for quite sometime. Her house is a disgusting little hole on the south side of town, next to a dump, and there is no distinction between the two entities, only that the sun shines on one pile of garbage and the other is confined to walls and a roof. Within the boundaries of the house there are two social outcasts: a foul smelling human with one arm and a panda that is running from the law and execution. We are huddled into this small space with garbage piling high and patience running thin.
There is an uncomfortable amount of trash in every nook and cranny of this 3 bedroom home. Any time I try and move I run into a pile of diapers (she doesn’t even have a kid), old frozen dinners or a creepy looking mannequins. I can find no safe haven from the trash. I am a back country skier, treading on fresh snow, and at any moment there could be a “travelanche” (a trash avalanche) as she calls it and I could be crushed by a half ton of thong underwear.
Brenda is clearly a hoarder – the kind that cries her-self to sleep while masturbating, and when she does I am forced to ask her what is wrong and try and console her. I wipe the tears from her eyes and hold her nub. Fortunately she hasn’t asked me to help with pleasuring her and I am praying to any god that will listen that she doesn’t, ever. Her loneliness must have started long ago and it makes me wonder, if only for a moment, was there a time when she was OK. This is really only for a moment, and then I move on to thinking about being cuddly and charming to the masses. I miss my day job.
Brenda has clearly gotten worse since she was fired from the zoo. And, unfortunately, I have witnessed her fleeting attempts to try and clean this mess — it is like watching a monkey fuck a football or one of those balloon people in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade when something goes terrifically wrong. My God that balloon came down fast! Jesus saved us! Phew! We got out of there just in time! Did you see when the turkey balloon hit that window, shattering it, and shards of glass rained down on the crowd? Yeah I remember seeing one lady nearly sliced in half… poor bitch just couldn’t move fast enough… sliced like a piece of corn bread. But at least we are alive and I am THANKFUL for that! Thanksgiving is truly wonderful! Fatten the pigs for slaughter.
Her difficulties are numerous since I mangled her at the zoo. So I feel obligated to take at least a little bit of time out of my day steeped in relaxation and looking cute to help her get things done. I try and cook for her, but usually just she orders a tub of wings and eats a stick of butter. I do some laundry here and there, although I don’t know exactly which pile of clothes is hers, so I just take from whatever one I choose, throw it in the washer and dryer, and fold it nicely, then put it back on one of the mounds of shirts and pants. I do what I can. By and By.
She is constantly tending to the mountains of clothes and stuffed pandas in every room of her house. And yes you heard that right, she has stuffed pandas everywhere. It is extremely unnerving. I counted 500 bears total, and I don’t want to be number five-hundred and one. I stay on my toes and watch her carefully when she is near knives or any blunt object.
I wish she would be as dutiful about her teeth or her smell. But instead of helping herself she has me brush her teeth, paint her toe nails and give her sponge baths, because, as she puts it, “I fucked over her wonderful life!” And she couldn’t be more right. I most certainly did this too her. She is obviously the victim in all of this! That’s right, stick your fat fingers near a wild animal. Yep, just slide them on through those bars and pet the harmlessly adorable panda! You will find out what happens. See, that shit hurt. Didn’t it? Stupid Cunt.
For the most part I don’t do labor intensive work around here. Brenda doesn’t really want me to do the house chores or anything. I mean she doesn’t really give a shit about those things anyway, for obvious reasons she lets it slide and I am sure apathy plays a big part. Now, even though I don’t have to do cleaning or any of that shit, she does have certain duties for me and they are far more horrifying and depraved than anything I would have witnessed in Communist China.
Even though I have only been living here for a few weeks, one quickly learns when it is time for the sponge baths. They don’t happen on a schedule. I am always caught off guard — probably out of denial or some sort of mental block. Brenda will usually sit on the couch next to me while I am watching animal planet or something educational. I love the specials on pandas. Those producers either got the whole thing wrong or I have been cooped up in a zoo my whole life and I am missing out on who I really am – how I am suppose to live.
As she sits down the sofa I can hear the springs stretching to their limits and the wood cracking ever so slightly. She then grabs the remote and turns of my show. Sometimes this doesn’t bug me because I realize I am a guest, even if it was not by choice, but most of the time I want to rip her other arm off and watch her flail on the fucking floor – blood rocketing out of her arm all over her piles of trinkets and stuffed pandas. But I don’t. In the silence of the dark TV she stares at me with hollow intuition and a search for meaning. I try not to react, hoping the mood will pass, but it has yet to leave her even once. She is always dead set on this her Frankie rubbing her folds and bulges down with a sponge as she giggles.
She will grab my paw and lead me to the 50’s style pink bathroom. The brass tub is a shade of green from years of 300lbs sliding into it. Oh if that tub could talk:
Dear God, here she comes to wallow again! Please, Dear Lord, take me now!! Ill do whatever you ask! Turn me into scrap metal! Send me to a Gay mans bath house! Weld my drain hole shut! Anything for Godsakes! Ughhhh! The dimples on her ass. The squeaking. The shallow water sloshing around and over the edge. We need a fire to burn this building down quick! God, I will humbly be your servant and become the alter by which some random axe murderer chops Brenda into bits! Help Me!
I could be that axe murder if I wanted. She is so vulnerable in the tub. It is a wonder how she ever got out before having me around.
I know that tubs’ prayers are not heard, because mine are not heard either. God is not in attendance at the bathing of obese women. Brenda usually giggles as I wash her, but she never actually says a word. Maybe it’s the sponge that tickles and makes her quake. This is a thought that comes with a visual image that I can not burn out of my memory with a soldering iron. Her nipples are the size of coasters, half submersed in the tepid water that wraps around her body like a coffin. As she soaks I think about all the children around the world that are without a nightly bath – let alone a sponge bath from an “at risk species”. Thoughts like that make me what to throw the hair dryer in and watch her fry.
Her hollow gray eyes flicker with shallow emotions reaching some sort of creepy climax towards the end of the bath — when the water is cold and my pending suicide leaps into my soul. I help her out of the tub and into her double-wide towel. She shimmers in the fluorescent light and makes the world beg for her forgiveness in letting her survive this long.
Despite the hours of cleaning, nothing seems to help her smell. I am not even sure if the stench that radiates from her at all times is Brenda or the vomit stain on the couch from the last time she made me cleans her toe nails. And I would describe the God awful event, but I think you have heard enough about my hellish daily tasks.
Really though, Brenda was kind enough to save me from an untimely death, and if I have to suffer through her loathsome lifestyle then so be it. This nightmare won’t be for ever. I wish it was over two weeks ago, but I can’t change time and I have much bigger fish to fry.
I have very big plans for the future and I am determined to find the right person to help me pull off this scheme. Brenda’s House is really just a stepping stone on the way to a meaningful existence. I don’t like all these sponge bath rapes and long nights without rest, but the wheels of change are a’spinning.
So I must be going now. My computer has is running low on battery power, and I have to feel my way through the dark to the bedroom, because the power went out, and I am in need of relief. I pray that I don’t run into DiaperMountain again. Last time I got moldy baby poop under my nails. No Bueno. Also I need to take a hearty shit in Brenda’s bed just to get to par with the sponge baths. That will be just the relief I need.