Trying to kill my boyfriend’s dog. Drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade with his friends. Summertime, living is easy. The grass in the backyard is translucent yellow from piss. His black Lab is yipping in my face, I’m loudly saying I want to break up with him because I want attention, and I’m on pills. Not the bad kind of pills, the kind of pills that are expected when your mom dies when you’re seven, fun pills, like Xanax and Ambien. Not birth control or Lithium.
My boyfriend’s friends are talking about the NBA highlights for 2022. Saying Draymond should enjoy his recovery, he’s earned it. Her Loss crackling on the Bose. Tucking their sweatpants into their socks and tucking their socks into their New Balances. This is Mike’s Hardest Lemonade Yet. This is Mike’s Thinking Hard Lemonade. This is Mike’s Thinking Hard Like A Cock Lemonade. I’m so self-pitying I deserve to die. Who are these special sorts of God-men who deserve their recovery? I don’t get it.
His friends, they make noises at me like I’m funny, he already told them I keyed his car. But this just endeared me to them. I don’t remember, I have memory holes. And they’re all equipped with Japanese bidets. Keep that brain squeaky clean. My boyfriend’s friends hoot and holler at me, they ask Frankie if he likes it. They say Frankie looks fucked up now. They say I made Frankie dog retarded, I gave Frankie dog Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Which doesn't make sense. We could all be so lucky. If I was a disabling force.
My boyfriend gets really fucking mad at me and almost kicks me out of his backyard, and his house. Almost. But The Hardest Thing Mike Has Ever Done Is This Lemonade. My boyfriend screams at me. Mike Is Harder Than The Sum-41 Of His Lemonade.
All dogs go to Heaven. On www.doesthedogdie.com, it says Frankie dog doesn’t die this season. His friends start smoking weed, crappy weed. Rolled into a jay the size of a floppy severed pinkie. I pet the dog, he nips at my hand. I fucking hate when animals lick my fingers when the animal in question is not me. I could get a disease.
My boyfriend is smoking the weed and talking about Soundgarden. I pour Mike’s Hardening Lemonade on the dog’s nose. He licks his nose with his long tongue, and he loves it. This can, it says you shouldn’t give it to anyone pregnant, but Frankie dog is a boy. Frankie dog yips at me, he loves me. He’s got a drinking problem. I lower the can to his rough tongue, and he tongues at the opening, looking sexual. Frankie dog tips the can back and starts to take big, hulking gulps, the fur around his mouth matted. The fur around his mouth is crunchy from the 32g of sugar in Mike’s Hard-Knock Lemonade. I feel a little pride knowing this dog has never drank alcohol before.
I was scrolling on crystal.cafe earlier and they were talking about taking the dogpill. This is incel rhetoric that argues women will always find an unneutered pitbull with a big cock more attractive than sub5 males. One of the femanons said something extremely topical. She said
>Anonymous 06/30/22 (Thurs) 13:21:44 25984
Do any real women still post here? lol. I have a boyfriend but he’s more interested in Asian women in retarded shooter games. He’s literally only my boyfriend bc he’s attracted to the fact that I am insecure, ugly, and have BMI 20.
He also won’t neuter his husky and it won’t stop humping everything in my house. So now theres just dog hair all over his house and my house and my body. Literally I am about to take the dogpill. It’s over.
Wat do nonas.
>Inb4 hit the gym
I am hitting the gym. And dont tell me to break up with him because I’m not doing that.
Poster 25985 responded immediately and told her to be careful because her boyfriend might train his dog to rape her at night, and that this is a common tactic deployed by male soldiers in the Israeli army. Poster 25991 told her that BMI 20 didn’t mean she was fat, if she was just at a BMI 20 all she had to do was eat fiber-rich meals and only after eight PM. Poster 25989 told her that the dogpill was pornographic rhetoric but she empathized, because her boyfriend had a female dog, and men tend to be creepily obsessed with having female dogs.
I didn’t respond to the thread because I was pissed off. At least she was getting laid. It seemed like the only thing standing between true love, in her circumstances, was a Playstation and a horny dog. Dogs, like most animals, have no understanding of the more abstract ways to die, like alcohol poisoning. This is why it’s so easy to kill dogs, even large dogs like huskies. A dog is also man’s best friend, famously, and is inherently trusting. Frankie dog puts his two front paws on my exposed upper thigh and does a little whine like he’s pouting. His wet whiskers twitch. He wants more.
While my boyfriend talks about his JV hockey team, I give his dog even more alcohol. When he’s lapping desperately at the tinkles of liquid at the top of the can I pour it out onto his face. Frankie dog yelps and starts to lick up the alcohol from the grass. He’s blinking because his eyes are burning, and the scleras even dye red. His tongue moves desperately against the dirt, and then his mouth is speckled with wet soil, Mike’s Harder-Than-Thou lemonade, bug guts, flecks of dead skin from my thigh. Spit bubbles at the corner of his giant, caricature lips. I wonder if Poster 25984’s boyfriend’s husky has ever had a hangover. Too fucked up to move, layed paralyzed with its tongue flung out to the side, letting out labored breaths.
Frankie stops panting, and licks his nose desperately. He curls up in a little ball on the ground. He barks, then sneezes. His little stomach starts to jiggle in a way that concerns me. I reach out to pat him on the head but he lets out a labored grunt. I want to tell him I get it, I’m fucked up too. My boyfriend starts freaking out again.
He goes, “What the fuck did you do?” Nobody is laughing anymore. Puppy Frankie stands up, for a second I think he has my back. Then he falls straight onto his back and starts to twitch. His paws are pointed towards the sky.
My boyfriend and his friends are freaking out. They start dialing Pet Poison Control and telling them what happened. The entire time my boyfriend has a vice grip on the back of my neck. As if I’m going to run away. Why would I want to run away?
My boyfriend’s friend tells Pet Poison Control that Frankie dog got into some alcohol, and now he’s twitching, real bad. My boyfriend adds that his girlfriend has been giving him sips of beer all night, sure, but beer on its own is not poisonous to dogs. Beer is only poisonous to dogs in large amounts, and my boyfriend’s girlfriend, me, has always been very careful. The woman on the other end says we should try to induce vomiting. My boyfriend runs inside for salt water and me and his friends crowd around Frankie.
I put my hands on his stomach, experimentally. I try to push down so maybe I can see phlegm leaving his mouth but it’s just a puff of smelly air. My boyfriend’s friend shoves my hands away and is still screaming at me, calling me a crazy bitch. He says he knew I was crazy as fuck but this is the type shit that gets him fucking tight. He doesn’t play about animals, nobody plays about animals.
Unfortunately he’s got me in a compromised position. I debate posting to the girls on crystal.cafe, like perhaps there is some logical reason that killing a young animal is not morally wrong. I try to shove my fingers down Frankie pup’s throat as if he’s myself. I try to reach down his throat to soak out the lemonade with my fingers but I keep pricking myself on his teeth and flinching from contact with his slimy uvula.
None of the girls on crystal.cafe would really understand, I’m thinking to myself. This is not what a femcel does. Not because the femcel is particularly ethical, but because the femcel herself cannot exist. She is paradoxical. This is a school of thought that pulls from vintage incel rhetoric. No matter how ugly a girl is there’s always a beta who will fuck her. So she cannot, ever, at her core, be involuntarily celibate. Only voluntarily celibate. It’s only now that we’ve progressed as a female race that we realize the femcel suffers from a different plague. She is poisoned by her male brain. She can get laid, even get male-pussy, but she will always be brutally burdened by specifically male anxieties, the ones that place her in conflict with others just for the pursuit of getting laid. She may be beautiful but there is no amount of beauty that can hide her inherent male brain.
Frankie dog’s breaths are coming out in hiccups. I am thinking I want this to be the summer I become a woman. The summer I turn pretty. The summer of getting laid in a way that really matters. Or makes a difference. The summer of getting male-pussy.
Frankie dog’s stomach makes a large gurgling noise, and Frankie’s mouth erupts with puke, coating my denim shorts in digested dogfood and Mike’s Lemonade, his lemonade like milky chunks of bones, his hardest lemonade yet.
