Marie Provost did not look her best
The day the cops bust into her lonely nest
in the cheap hotel up on Hollywood west
She'd been lyin' there for two or three weeks
The neighbors said they never heard a squeak
While hungry eyes that could not speak
said even little doggies have got to eat
She was a winner that became a doggie's dinner
She never meant that much to me
Whoa oh poor Marie
That's what happens, ladies, if you fail to ketch a man: You die (almost) alone, your pet eats you, and an ex-pub-rocker turned new-wave poseur memorializes your tragic fate in a cheerfully infectious pop song, claiming all the while within it that you "never meant that much" to him. Is that what you want out of life, ladies? Three minutes of immortality? Well? Is it?
It kind of is what I want out of life, I admit, but then I'm a little crazy, on account of the cats and the singleness and a bunch of other aberrations, no doubt--so if you have a gift for writing lyrics, auditions for the honor of composing my memorial pop song are open starting . . . now. Good luck trying to rhyme "Ilyka;" maybe we should just call me Margo or Sally or something?
UPDATE: Another reason you should never own cats, and this one's straight from my gluttonous heart:
I can't eat pistachios because I have one cat who's obsessed with them, and he just makes the whole pistachio-consuming process very irritating, what with his constant begging and cuteness and occasional fetching of pistachios from random corners of the house, especially the way he drops them at my feet like, "Look what I brought you!" Aw, it's a cat-spit-covered pistachio! HOW SWEET. Who's Mama's good boy?
It was only today, however, that I discovered that Barkley eats peanuts. Now see here! I didn't GIVE him any; he just STOLE them, right out of the palm of my hand.
Just like he's probably planning to do with my liver when I die. Well, with any luck I won't actually be holding my liver in the palm of my hand when I die, but you get the idea.