Raccoon, fleas, and coffee.

I'm a little writing raccoon. That's right. I'm a raccoon who can write. I write a lot. About anything I see. Like, there's a cup of cold, coffee next to me. The freshness of it is very questionable. It might start growing mold any second. But it's still drinkable. So I'll drink it. There are clouds in the sky. And they should cover the sun so that there would not be 105 F outside. Temperatures like this can set my fur on fire, and ill be running around bald until I grow more fur. Though it might be the nature's way to help me get rid of my fur coat so that I could cool off faster. Or maybe nature does not do that. Maybe the coffee is growing a special kind of mold, which gives me hallucinations. Mold is related to mushrooms. Mushrooms can give you hallucinations. So can mold. Maybe. Or maybe I'm just falling asleep because the mold grows and eats out all the caffeine. Evil mold. Nobody and nothing can steal my caffeine from me! Yes, that's right! I'm an evil raccoon, I don't like when my caffeine gets stolen. I have a scratch on my paw. I don't know where it came from. Or maybe it's just a hallucination. You remember the whole coffee deal, right? Well, if not, I won't explain for the second time. You can go back to the beginning and reread the stuff. I like writing, but I get bored when I have to explain something a lot of times – especially about coffee – because if I do that, it might inspire you to steal my caffeine – and that would be bad… for you, because I'll get mad. See how much the little writing raccoon cares about you, dear readers? No, I don't really care about you. I don't want my caffeine being stolen. Period. Telling you that I care about you basically implies that you don't want to steal my coffee because consequences will follow – that is, I care only about me and my coffee – and threaten you so that you would not steal my caffeine from me, whether you are a bison, or random indecisive mold which does not know whether it should grow or not. And the consequences are really scary, so you don't want to know them. They will follow for sure – that is, if you are the one trying to steal my coffee from me. If you are the one bringing me coffee, you'll get a fuzzy hug. Well, if you are the one stealing coffee, you will get a fuzzy hug too, and a thanks from me for trying to rid me of my caffeine addiction. Scary, huh? You don't want to hear me say thanks. It is scary as heck. I smile, stare at you and say thanks. And fuzzy hugs are even more scary! Why? No, I don't have fleas. But how can it be fun to hug a fuzzy animal and not start itching at once? Fleas are cute! But if you want some, you'll have to go talk to my coffee – it might know better. I don't have them. That is, my fur probably does. I don't. Yes, my fur does have them. Listen! They are talking! Oh no… they are talking about stealing my coffee from me. Well, that's no fun. My coffee will be gone, and my fleas will be gone because they will not need me anymore. They have as much of a caffeine addiction as I do. Wait. What is the difference between fleas and coffee? And how did I start talking about coffee and now I'm talking about my imaginary friends – fleas? I have a lot of friends – you won't be able to see them, but they are there. Just look around – they make so much happy noise! They bring fleas and put them in my coffee. Have I told you I am old? I think I was born yesterday actually – but I am older than those who were born today. Much older. A day consists of twenty-four years, right? So if I was born at the beginning of yesterday, I will be forty eight years older than somebody who will be born at the end of today. I think a plant started growing out of my coffee. Oh no! My cow is eating it. It looks like a flea though. Did coffee shrink me and I see mold starting to grow and think it is the size of me? Or is it a flower pot sitting next to me? Dirt indeed looks like coffee. Hmmm. How do you distinguish between coffee and dirt? I actually don't think there is any difference. Fleas will steal and eat either.

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Something in the Shrub.

I walked by a shrub. Something in it moved.
I looked at it. Something went quiet.
I moved. Something moved again.
– Hey, – I said.
– Hey, – echoed Something.
– Who are you? – I asked.
– Who are you? – said Something.
– A… being… – I said.
The shrub was quiet. I moved.
Something moved and asked "Why?"
– Because I am, – I said.
– Wrong, – said Something.
– Who are you? – I asked.
Something was quiet.
I turned away. Something moved again.
– Hey, – Something said.
– Yes? – I replied.
– Why do you want to know who I am? – Something asked me.
Now I went quiet and started to think. Why does it matter?  Was I scared of Something? Definitely. Did I know how to talk to it? Probably not. Was I going to treat Something differently after it answered my question? Sure. Was I afraid Something will treat me differently after I tell it who I am? Most likely. That's why I said I am a being. But really, who am I? A human, a girl, a college student, a worker, a person with a bruised past. Would I treat myself differently if I did not know any of that? Would I be more free? I froze. I had a world of opportunities in front of me, which I dismissed only because of the labels I gave myself. And here is Something. It does not care who I am. It just wants to talk to me. It does not want to find out who I am in order to measure how much of its hate it wants to give me. Maybe I should not be giving myself my own hate either? I don't even know half of the meaning of the labels I have, let alone whether there is any particular meaning to them at all. Maybe I should get to know myself first, and then fill my labels with meaning, rather than trying to fit in them?
– You meant, why I want to know who you are, didn't you? – I asked.
– Correct, – Something said.
– I don't know, – I said.
– I love you, – Something said.
– I love you too, – I said, feeling that I did not have to know who the creature was for me to say that.
Something moved again. I went quiet.
A rabbit jumped out of the shrub and looked at me. I took out my camera and the rabbit ran away. I got back to pruning my daisies – with a life lesson learned.