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We’re pleased to periodically present featured student work from The Second City Training Center’s Online Program. Erika Lindquist is a comedian and writer from Boston, MA. She has studied at The Second City Training Center and written about the unrealistic expectations society holds for women, bad roommate behavior, and they-who-shall-not-be-named (Millennials).
Dear Bing Bong,
I remember when I first saw you at the animal shelter, my sweet little cat. You were so precious as you crawled into my lap and let me rub your fluffy belly. I knew you were the one to make my lonely cat lady life complete; I didn’t need the touch of man or kinship of fellows as long as you were by my side. And through all the apartment moves, triumphs, and trials, you’ve been there. I love you, Bing Butt, I really do. But you are killing my sex life.
I know that only a few sentences ago I said that I didn’t need anybody but you. But that was then, and now I’m totally emotionally stable and I’m getting out there. This doesn’t change anything between us. You’re my little angel, always and forever. But real angels don’t sit there and stare when I’m boning that dude from the coffee shop. They order pizza for me from the living room. Be a real angel for me, bub.
Listen, I’ll be the first one to admit that human sexuality is a weird and wacky thing: there is a lot of moaning, enthusiastic yells, and butts. Lots of butts, lots of fun! But it’s not an invitation for you to come over and delicately perch on top on my head. And you really don’t need to try to keep biting this guy’s hand. It’s OK that’s he’s touching my boobs, although I appreciate you protecting my...honor? I’ve bought you about a thousand catnip toys--why can’t you occupy yourself with those?
And how is it that you’re totally cool with ignoring me all day and the minute a guy comes over you’re all up in my business? Like earlier. I asked if you wanted to cuddle, and you just threw up a hairball. The mixed signals from you are simply out of control. I share my home with you, my food, and my life, but sometimes I just need maybe an hour away from you to get nasty with this guy.
Honestly! I don’t sit within an inch of your head and inspect you while you groom the spot where your balls used to be. (I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, I didn’t take your balls; they were nipped by the nugget fairy before I got you--so move on.) There is nothing that dries the creek faster than looking up and seeing your massive green eyes right in front of my face. This is a twosome, not a threesome, dude!
Do you understand now why I’ve been locking you out of my room? It doesn’t mean that I won’t let you in ever again, so there’s really no need to cry relentlessly at the door when I’m “saying hello to Mr. Jones.” Surely there is a piece of lint that you could chase around the hall or corner of the ceiling that you could stare at. Or a dog taking a dump on the street you could watch through the window.
What do you have to say for yourself? Oh, “Meow?!” That’s really mature. How dare you question my standards when you regularly drink out of the toilet bowl? At least this guy has a job. What is it you do all day, again? Oh yes, thank you for taking the time now to make sure your anus is spotless.
And now where are you going? No, I’m not letting you outside, I’ve never let you outside. Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still going to live here with me no matter who I date. You really are making this more painful than it has to be. Excuse me?! Did you just scratch me? God, you are so frustrating sometimes.
Sincerely,
The One Who Feeds You
Want to have a shot at being published on secondcity.com, too? Learn more about The Second City Training Center’s Writing Satire for the Internet online classes here.
