The Hat

  I hate the whole thing. I think back to where I came from, who my people were, and I hate everything. I think about what happened to me, how I was made in the night and taken like a dirty photocopy, and some people might see that like some sort of liberation, but I'm not those people. The only thing I have to keep me warm is the way I hate everyone and everything.

  I stole a copy of Catcher in the Rye from some kid's bedroom. I hated it, but it is still sitting in my room like some giant piece of dust.

  You might say I like some things. I get a rush when I take things. You can't even properly call it stealing when it's easier than taking candy from a baby. If people gave babies candy. Usually it's mushy bland food. But, I digress. Taking things is the easiest thing in the world for me and my kind, so it kind of loses its glamour. And there is only so much room in my space for things.

  I took a very nice hat from this old guy. He was so attached to it, I watched him take care of it with this pussy loving look on his face. It was with him in his dreams. So one sunny day, he was in his little apartment, and his hat was sitting on the kitchen table, and he got up to get something from the fridge. I took it right then. He turned around and the blood drained out of his face, for a minute I thought maybe I killed him, hoping for a heart attack or something, but after a few minutes of standing there like a dumbass, he just kind of wilted a bit, and then he went off to bed. It's a stupid hat, but I wear it all the time now. I like remembering the look on his face.