Rocky’s October.

I was about 8-years-old when I got my first puppy. A week prior to his arrival, my mind was racing nonstop on the topic of dogs and the thought of having company by my side like in those movies where the main protagonist’s dog lays by her feet while she does her homework. I wondered whether or not he would be pre-trained before we got him. I imagined how much fun having a dog was going to be, especially considering my belief that I didn’t have to put any work into training him. That was really silly because, as all dog owners know, that’s not how that works.

When Rocky came, I was beyond smitten for him. My mother’s boyfriend walked through the door with this tiny Siberian Husky pup. He was cradled and wrapped in a blanket like a baby. We circled around him, awing and cooing loudly at him. Imagine this small 2 month old pup arriving to this smothering household. Poor pup. From the way he’d move his head away from us when we’d try to hug his tiny head with our child sized arms, I could tell he was untamed, adorable, and anti-social. I knew I’d already love him to death.

His first night will never fail to trigger hair pulling memories for all of us. The whimpering was nonstop, all night. He only relaxed whenever someone was outside with him, holding him. Even then he still whimpered very audibly. I figured maybe he missed his mom, and a part of me felt really guilty about that. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know he was taken from his mom only days after he was born. I didn’t know anything about rescue dogs or breeder dogs. My young mind could only piece together the thought that he might be missing his mom. I know I’d miss my mom if I only got to spend a few days with her.

There he was in my arms, still crying but not as obnoxiously as before. Today, we look back at his puppy years, and laugh at all the stress and anger he gave us. I never wanted a dog. I never felt the need for a companion. I had enough friends already. John, Felix, and Andrew, these were my friends, and we were close because we all grew up in Bushwick back when looking over your shoulder was a safety precaution. Including myself, we were the baddest niggas in our school. No one fucked with us. I was the smallest out of the group, a defect caused by my Ecuadorian heritage. It only meant I had more to lose if I didn’t prove my strength in front of the guys. I never wanted a dog. Didn’t feel like I needed one, but whatever my little brother and sister wanted, they got it. So there he was in my arms, and I had no choice. I had to stay up with him because I was the oldest, never mind the fact that I had class in the morning.  We always remember that first night. It was so crazy because he would not stop for nothing. Rocky was my blessing, and my curse. Since I’m the oldest, of course I learned how to drive first. So guess who was asked to drive him to the doctor? Me. Me, me, me. I couldn’t hate my brother and sister because they were just young so of course they couldn’t help me out. Still, my mother assumed the whole world onto my shoulders. The responsibilities never seemed to stop piling on. First and foremost was the responsibility of being a good big brother to my younger siblings, but I also had to be this saint adhering role model for them, too. Then Rocky came, and, of course, it was my job to do what the little ones couldn’t. I had to carry the dog food up the four flight of stairs to our apartment. I had to chip in for his medicine. I had to help walk him. I had to drive him and my family to the park just so we could say we took him out. I had to do too damn much for this dog, and I’m going to miss every second of it. I never thought about it until he was finally gone, but I loved his animosity. He was a piece of shit for biting my little sister’s lip, though. I gave him hell for that. I reigned every ounce of my might and fury upon him. My little sister and my little brother are my prized possessions. One thing my dad told me before his time came was this: Cuidame los. Take care of them. That’s what I intended to do no matter the circumstance so when Rocky bit Katherine that night, I blacked out. I kicked him, punched his snout. Of course, he growled, still in attack mode, prowling low to the ground ready to bite anyone. Afraid and cautious, he ran into his cage, but I could tell he was trying to stand his ground. This made me angrier, so I ran to the kitchen and filled up a bowl of hot, steaming water. I came back to the cage and poured the water over him. It didn’t seem to hurt him enough, so I threw the bowl at his head as hard as I could. All the while I can hear my sister crying out. It wasn’t until we were at the hospital, in the middle of watching her doctor sew her lip closed, when she told us she’d been crying this whole time because she was afraid we were going to put Rocky down. This confused me, I was angry, but seeing my sister cry for this dog, who hurt her, who put her in the hospital, I could tell she loved him unconditionally. This truly baffled me, this kind of unconditional love. I suppose I loved him in a different way, not in the way that my sister just did, but in the way that he showed me a rage in him that I’d felt inside all my life. I understood him, and I admired the way he never backed down. I admired the way he never failed to react, like me.  The next morning, I was still pissed at him, but he seemed gentler towards me. It was like there was a new understanding between us, and he became my friend. He became my companion, too.

Rocky had developed digestion problems when he was about a year old, which often called for multiple visits to the vet. This meant my mom pretended to hate my dog but we all knew she loved him just as much as we did. We knew he wasn’t the healthiest dog ever. At most, people might think he was really lazy, but then he’d get right back up to bother whoever seemed the busiest. Eventually we noticed he got chubbier, which was weird because we gave him a strict eating schedule and it was never more than two cups of special fat-free kibble, as prescribed by his vet. Then he started having trouble going up and down the stairs.

I didn’t want to go to sleep yet. I just wanted to spend time with my new dog. It pained my little heart to hear him cry. He hadn’t done anything for me, but I already loved him enough to feel his confusion, his frustration, his anxiety. Every howl begged me to stay with him, but my mom insisted I shouldn’t lose sleep over our new dog. Now, I think that’s a ridiculous thing to do to a child. All the excitement in me? How could I go to sleep? Looking at David holding Rocky, I wondered, Does he actually want to calm him down or is he just doing this so he can go to sleep? I felt the priorities were misplaced, so I capped the anger in me, dragged my feet as I walked back to my room, and tried my hardest to go to sleep. I tried. I could only imagine how exhausted my brother must’ve been, but I tried not to think about it. I guess my mind could tell that was too much guilt for a child to handle.

I was just as excited about Rocky as my little sister was. I could hear his howls from the room David and I shared. I thought there was something wrong with him, so I’d come out every 15 minutes, poking my head through the door, certain that mom would reprimand me for getting out of bed, but I had to see Rocky. Funny enough, my sister was doing the same thing, too, so the both of us continuously gave my mother the headache. I mean, she should’ve expected we’d want to spend time with Rocky. It was painful to leave for school the next morning. We could only imagine how confused he must’ve felt. Coming into a new home, having a restless night, only to wake up to no one. My sister and I have always wanted a dog, but we were told the same old same old, “We can’t have a dog because it’s too much money and he’s going to be cramped up in here.” We live in an apartment, so we tried to lean towards reason when mom told us this. Still, we were young, impatient kids, and truth be told, I needed Rocky. I was always a loner. In school, in the playground, I was an outsider. I guess everyone could tell I was different. It wasn’t because of my weight. (Although that was often the first thing kids, and my gym teacher, used to torture me) It was the way I spoke, the way I walked, the way I wasn’t aggressive like the other boys. I wasn’t like the other boys. I was just…different. Growing up, my mother talked to us about the sweet fruits of her marriage with my dad, about how the love between a man and a woman can be the most beautiful thing God gave us. I didn’t know how to let her know I’d never know that feeling exactly, or that being in love with someone was going to look severely different from what she’d imagined. So, I needed Rocky, and having him by side when I came out made the world less scary.

He was a difficult dog. We all banded together to give him showers. That stopped when he was about 2 years old. This wasn’t because we were too lazy to shower him, it was just excessively difficult. At the end of every shower, we were all very sore and drenched in a combination of water and fur. He was a very squirmy pupper. He didn’t know what staying still was, and his favorite thing ever was to shake off every possible drop of water from his fur. Of course, we were the receiving end.

One night, following these symptoms of fatigue, he began having trouble laying down. I was the first to see that. I stayed up all night with him until he finally lied down to sleep. I could feel his pain in every whimper, in every stagger or attempt to lie down. And I could tell he wanted to sleep. I could see it in his eyes. Glazed, very human. But it was just too painful for him to even sit. I didn’t know what to do so I tried massaging his back, hoping it might soothe him enough. Finally, my mom came out from her room, and asked what was wrong with Rocky. I told her. Everyone woke up to take him to the hospital. He got checked. It turned out he had a tumor, “benign tumor”, they said. Apparently it was slow growing, meaning he was supposed to have a couple more years. Only a couple of months after his diagnosis did his tumor burst in his liver, causing internal bleeding. He cried the whole night, we wrapped him in a blanket because he was really cold. We couldn’t afford another visit to the hospital or surgery, and we didn’t want him to suffer through healing after the surgery with him being old and all. We thought it wouldn’t be fair to him to make him go through all that again. So we stayed up with him. I really did hope that he would hold out through the night until we could take him to the vet in the morning.

The morning lasted forever. Like the cold start of the day often makes it feel, the day seemed to drag as no one noticed, but everyone noticed. I suppose they tried not to notice. I suppose they didn’t want to know what was happening to me. Shivering, wrapped in layers of cloth, we’re so feeble, so selfish, I wondered, “How come…” and it felt like I was talking but not loud enough so it sounded only in my mind. I couldn’t walk, I could only bend over like the breath was knocked out of me. My legs were aching in that way when death comes to knock on your door on a peaceful afternoon night. When the stars and the moon shine just right through the hospital window and the flowers wilt, soft and pure against the linoleum floor. But you don’t want to go.

But when morning came, he seemed to be in shock, like he was disoriented and didn’t know what was going on. My brothers took him to the vet, and they insisted I shouldn’t miss class. So they loaded him into the car wrapped in a blanket because that was the only way they could carry him without adding pressure to his tummy area. Heading to school, my mind was not with me. I couldn’t think and I didn’t want to. To be in school while Rocky was in pain. I didn’t want to.

I stepped away from my laptop to go get tissue. I needed a break from thinking about that incident. That never ending incident. I feel like I’m living in it every day. I have so many tabs open, I thought, and it’s almost like anything I’m doing right now is exactly what I’d be doing if Rocky was here, except for the crying part. That was what he left behind for me, pain and love. The tissue’s sitting next to me in his place.

I was underground at the W 4th station when I got the text. My oldest brother told me Rocky wasn’t going to make it, and to call him as soon as I can. My legs. I made the call, and he told me to make my way to the vet’s office as fast as I could. The stares, my hair sticking to my face, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about ruining my favorite jacket with all the snot I wiped from my nose. I clicked “End call”, a pressure that built up in my head from the night before got heavier, painfully pulling all my nerve endings to their extreme, and I wailed out, doubled over, into the air in front of me. My legs gave out and my mind blanked out. I wanted to get away from this world. To run from this world where Rocky would no longer existed within the next hour. He picked up my mom and I halfway the trip to save time. They waited. I waited. I’d grown up thinking patience was the key to a satisfying life, then I realized how excruciating waiting can be. As I sat there on the train, as I sat there in the car seat. Every second away from Rocky was ice to my cold arms and wet face. I looked out at the world moving on, at bikers passing us, at cars passing us, at people having hot coffee, at people laughing, at people begging for money. I just sat and looked, sobbing quietly, remembering.

Saying goodbye to my best friend, my baby, was the hardest thing I ever had to do. We all know it’s the memories of watching him grow up that made his death hard on us. I mean, it’s hard for any dog owner to lose a family member. Looking at the pain in his eyes, I knew putting him down was the right thing to do. But it still felt unfair. It felt wrong when he’d try to get up off the table because he wanted to go home. I wanted him to come home. I wanted it all to be a bad dream. The cruelest, most unreal dream. But every time I wiped my tears away, and the blurriness was no longer there to fool me, he was there. On that table, his veins prepped for a potion made to end of pain. To end the shock in his eyes, to end his cries. We were each given a few minutes to say goodbye to him. I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but it was something along the lines of, “You were always there for me when no one else was. You always reminded me what it feels like to love someone. I never felt truly alone because of you. You’re my baby and I’ll always love you. I really hope I’ll get to see you again someday.”

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Glowing Atmospheric Truths

I can always wish for the stars to hug me like a wish that never came true. And I can see it’s glow kiss me on all parts of my skin. It washes over me, envelops my essence into the whole I’ve always wanted to be. The Whole I’ve always wanted to feel. When I spread my toes across Earth’s warm misty green locks, and I stretch my body upwards to create a deeper space in my lower back, I sigh into a satisfying sight before me, and close my eyes to take it all in. I allow the alien green hue of the dancing fireflies to flutter around my air, and I catch them ever so delicately with a gentle swoop of my palm beneath their sweet little feelers. And as they explore the saltiness of my human fingers, I giggle like a child at their play. I can’t help it. How can something as beautiful and worthy of all that is good…rest on a creature as unworthy as my kind, who has destroyed the world this sweet little masterpiece rightfully deserves? And so I let her go, and watch her swing, play hide and seek in the dark air where I haven’t damaged it yet with my human breath. I hug my legs into my chest, watch contently at the children who should inherit what mankind doesn’t deserve. Hung over me, I’m encapsulated by a sky of branches and its leafy greens. So it’s just me and the fireflies.  

A Whirring in Space

Thousands of light years away I hear the whirring in my sleep. Through the static echoes in my brain and by the hum of sweet cosmic lullabies in my ear. I believe, that the pace of New York is a genius cover up for the reasons why we don’t look up to the stars anymore. We don’t think about our minuscule presence. Of course we shouldn’t. Any information as such can drive the world mad with questions, with the fear of being forgotten. The fear of being lost in so much empty Space. But how can one feel lost when we just might walk together in that rust-colored vacuum we call Mars. The color of rock dust recognizes us, thank god. NASA has announced the landing of the space probe called “InSight”. I believe this is the whirr I hear. I believe it’s the sound of progress. Although I do not feel inspired right now, the tinkering of wires inside the contraption begs for human curiosity.  

The cosmic dust in the galaxies are not lost. They simply are as they will be, millions and billions of miles away from our infectious curiosity.  Yet these probes and metal frequencies search for a home that is lost. And what is home if you cannot comfortably sink into loss, and turn such into something that is found? Because when something is found, it can never be lost again, but anything else that happens to It is fair game.

Such technology shocked thousands as the beeps and tweets and whirring of computations occurred in less-than-real-time. Their creators shed joyful tears, not for the loss of another curiosity, but for the success towards godliness, Mightiness, to reign into a new kingdom. It is there to destroy, to love, to hate, because what is love for a home if it does not drive you mad at the same time? Oddities will drive you mad so that you know you care enough to possibly love them. Lab coats, hunched over with creases for hours at a time are fixational symptoms of human fascination.

I will hope, and sing for Mars. I will sing my mourning for the chalky red planet floating among the nebulas and infinite universes. Sure enough, the Evil of Mankind is absolutely persistent to get what it wants, what it needs, because there is nothing more home to Mankind than a world that is not ours.

Emily.

Hungry, but beautiful and eccentric, she had a noticeable strain in her eyes. It was the kind that one gets when they’ve seen a defeat too hard to swallow. But those people are often the ones who never give up. It seems there’s something coursing through their veins. At least, there was definitely something coursing through Emily.

Brunette, long-haired, skin smooth to the touch, what else can I say about Emily? Except that she hid many secrets? Shut and locked many doors? No one knew why Emily hid herself away for so many long periods of time. Perhaps her secrets were too hard to handle for her loved ones? Or maybe she just wanted a little something for herself? Her secrecy stirred the endless imaginations of many, even the ones suspected in the past to have lost their imaginative streaks long after childhood, those who’ve succumbed to the lifestyle that is the working man who rarely earns a cent for the hour, long after the initiation which made a young boy, a man, or, a girl, a woman. Emily…she’s difficult, that Emily, to explain. See, she never became a woman. To everyone around her, she seemed to be a child still, yet an inquisitive one. And all men believed they could discipline Emily into the womanly standards of the town. Alas, she would not stay still, she always knew exactly what men were, what they wanted, and how to get away. This did not please her parents, of course, as parents are so often the antagonists of most stories. Choking their children until they learn to enjoy breathing a different air. But despite the frustrations she bore into her guardians, they loved her, and desperately wanted to find out just exactly what had happened to Emily the night before her initiation, and what had led up to it.

The townsfolk have reports of Emily, saying she’d been acting strange during her initiation. Many report she hadn’t been acting strange at all. Which leaves us to question, who was Emily really or what was she becoming, and how was she so clever in fooling us all? Her parents had been furious at the lot of the accusations thrown their way. She is a devilish monster set to pull trickery on all of the townspeople, Old Man Wicket would say, and it will start with miniscule, harmless phenomena, he’d also say.

“In the end, it will no longer be harmless,” they’d say.

Yes, Emily’s parents loved her, but when she’d sneak out of the house to stare into the Oak tree outside in front of their yard, they couldn’t help but question…

Emily herself did not resort to silence at such accusations. Well, physically she did, but many of the townspeople swore she’d uttered words to them in passing. She’d stare calmly with large wondering eyes. From her motionless mouth, she’d say,

“…….The Oak had spoke,

        And you will, too…..”

Odd. Those who were on Emily’s side would generate excuses for the phenomenons, saying they’d miss their last pick up from the Apothecary, or they would dismiss it altogether.

From home to the streets.

Cruising, shredding, carving, the works. All of these thoughts, and all of these options, they race through my head like the race against myself on the road. The crunch and vibrations of the streets beneath my feet echo for miles ahead of me as I explore parts of New York City I already know, and will know. Stares and smiles, teeth whiter than the pale moon above us shine through the night, that round light bulb in the sky stays showering us, hosing down our fears of the night that is too dark to see through. With a graceful sense of balance, I kick off on my board, and the colors of my neighborhood overwhelm my peripherals. New fancy homes, brighter street lamps, the same old dingy apartments, the same old dingy people hanging on the steps of their home, sometimes even mine. I cruise down the end of my block where there are two garage doors covered in graffiti art. A beautiful black girl with round eyes, curly hair, lips full and shiny, more characters, guys, but I can only focus on the girl. 9:17pm and she’s the only one I can stare at. I limp over to her, strategically steady my board in front of her, and lie down on it so that I’m only staring at the starry night sky. Satellites, they say, but I like to pretend they could be messages to the ones who watch them. Spread out and ominous, but shy, the white specks of the sky, and their spaces in between, provoke the thought: Am I tired or sad?

I found out I was both, so thank god I was already on my block. I could be home in seconds if I hustled through the cracks in the street. Each square in the street has its own personality, it’s own story shown by the cracks, the indents, the paw prints, the name writing and dates engraved into them. The small black dots that could be gum faded into the ground weeks after people have stepped all over them, and they annoy me. Well, the distance itself annoys me, and I suppose whatever is between myself and my home will annoy me no matter what. I trudged by old familiar houses, and smelled the fresh fall air, wishing the gusts of wind were strong enough to cool down my heated body after half an hour of cruising. My balancing leg aching from constant clenching, I waddle up the miniature steps into my building.

Immediately I regretted my decision to come outside because inside was steamy, nothing like the natural lighting outside, and the walls give off hazardous fumes of a crumbling infrastructure. Our lights look dim like they should start flickering so that they can audition for the creepy hospital scene in a horror movie. The flooring is wildly outdated, mopped down every so often with Fabulosa but never quite clean enough to keep the roaches away. Their colors still seem vibrant like they’re still alive. If you stare long enough, you can almost see them move like they’re playing dead, constantly toying with us. A leg will twitch or their whole body convulses, and then it stops. You continue on to your apartment hoping they won’t come back to life and enter your apartment through the gap under your door that’s too damn big. They always come back to life. There are stains of roach deaths, centipede deaths, you name it, with scuffs of gum and spilled soda that create black patches all over these outdated hallway floors. The mail boxes, as I see them, all have an unwelcoming silver color, aching in their hinges as they screech out your arrival to the neighbors, letting them know you are now checking your mail. The lot of these mailboxes have mediocre scribbles of apartment numbers and names. I search my ring of keys and find my mailbox key. It’s small, easy to separate from the others, but the mailbox lock doesn’t seem to like it so much. One has to shove it in and expertly jiggle the key to find the right moment to turn it so that the mechanism is finally unlocked. I give credit to the inside of our mailboxes, or at least mine, seeing as they’re decently free of bugs and any other form of obvious filth. Still, I don’t touch the inside.

Disappointed and also relieved there is no junk mail, I turn the lock, close the little door, and turn the lock again, its hinges creating that infamous screech to the neighbors at 9:30pm. Feeling like I’ve wasted time, I turn towards the rest the hallway, the end of it is where I need to use the only stairs we have. Everyday strangers pass through and say a polite hello which doesn’t seem so polite but more as, “No beef here.” The stairs alone are a design of cheap marble that’s already cracked, some parts wobbling more than others. The aging residents here struggle to climb these crusty stairs. Me, I just hate feeling like I won’t be strong enough to handle this at that “age”. Youth is fleeting, I think as I pull myself up these stairs, trying not to touch the bannisters too much because my mom thought everything was riddled with disease, from the rooftop down to the front steps. I’m small, so I notice the layers of paint ripped off our walls, the imprints of nails that have scratch through with haunting memories of intoxicated and drugged up tenants.

Every step here has a memory. Stains of blood leading down the the main hallway tells me the story of a woman who couldn’t find a way out, roaches tell me stories of broken homes with mothers who never cared to teach their children the importance of cleanliness, and just caring. The fire extinguisher with a broken glass door, and an empty bag of Fritos chips stuffed inside, tells me many stories of how that could have possibly happened, but are those that I don’t care to think about. Because it’s all the same story, I don’t care to think about it. I think about that as I continue to pull myself up to the third floor, finally. It’s such a chore lugging my board up stairs when I’m already exhausted..so worth it on the road though. I reminisce, standing in front of my apartment door, for a quiet moment, thinking about the air blowing through my hair as I carved down a new hill around my block. If I could sleep outside for a night, that would be great, and I take back the thought as soon as I walk through the door, into my cool apartment.

 

Oceans That Hover

To the Oceans that hover,

I want to write to you about how

lovely and incredible

your pearly whites, and authentic smells

of salt water are enough to make one see:

It’s hard enough to walk through uneven lands,

but to tread through oceans

of your deathly strengths..

A sailor’s gaze

a daredevil, I might add,

can see right through the angry child that you are

so sweet, so beautiful,

yet so unfiltered and destructive.

Can such a beauty of nature hold so dear to my heart

when you endanger our fragile bodies?

I can’t help but love you,

for awakening my existence.

That is your gift to me

and I dive into the fruits of your gift with a heart so heavy

to drag me through the greater depths of below.

There, I see a deeper purpose for me.

The Portal

It climbs out from the yellow orb in the sky and it whispers into my ear, Don’t do it. 

I recognize the conflict between my place here and the place I want to be. 

I know I don’t want to be anywhere without you. And I am, yet I’m still breathing. 

Miserably, but I’m still kicking. 

I don’t think I need, I don’t think I need, I don’t think I need…

I don’t think. 

And so the crystals and specks of dust from the orb call out to me. 

They call out to me and tempt me with what might have been on the other side. 

The Family of the World

In my drunken stupor I’ve come up with an analogy, and correct me if it needs correcting but this is what I’ve come up with. 

Essentially the world, planet Earth, can be thought of as a literal home; four walls, a ceiling and a floor. Now, those living in such a cramped space will be forced to confront each other and differences will be settled, peacefully or violently. Either way, it will be settled. Now, the world, Earth, is so large, we just simply can’t get to each other, or we have not had the courage to get to each other, because it’s such a large populated reach. This is essentially why it’s taken to long to confront social and political issues. Like most household families, whether in an apartment or a home, the beginning of a family starts off awkward and unsure of how to deal with the differences amongst one another. Eventually, the cramped space causes the need for confrontation in order to solve or understand such differences. So the family begins to fight, begins to fall apart in the worst possible ways imaginable. Still, when all battles are fought, we begin to dissolve these differences or at the least, begin to understand that so and so sees the world differently than I do so I will respect their perspective and they will respect mine as well. Our population on this planet is so large and diverse, we have only just began to confront these issues as evident by today’s political and social issues like gender acceptance, sexuality acceptance, exposure on the realities of today’s unfair hierarchy based on wealth and status. We are confronting these issues head on now, much like the way siblings will finally come out in the open about how much they hate each other. Just know that these battles will later, if not sooner, be considered as fought and we will coexist as one large family again. We will see each other’s differences and understand that our differences are what makes our world colorful and unique. The thought of a person with something new to bring to the table will one day warm our hearts. 

I hope you lovelies enjoy your morning! Wherever you are ❤️

Wubba Lubba Dubdub!!

Now, I am quite amazed at how impressively producers of Adult Swim’s Rick and Morty, Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon, have pulled through for fans like me who love their edgy breakaways from the system. 


Yesterday, on April Fools Day, they chose to air the first episode of the new season 3 on Cartoon Network, leaving most fans skeptical and reluctant to waste their time on a cruel April Fools Day prank. What these long time anticipatory fans didn’t realize is the Rick and Morty crew had pulled the ultimate prank of the year. 


Why would I go out of my way to get to a television just to find out it was a prank, of course, because it’s April Fools Day? Surely we’d get at least a week’s notice right? But the savviest twist I’ve ever seen a show do in my lifetime: premiere it with no warning or early notice, get em to think it’s a joke, then actually live broadcast it on Facebook and television for two hours, all while a fake April Fools Day video is set up for the Facebook post and the tv schedule remains saying it’s showing Bob’s Burgers. Brilliant. They saw the opportunity and they took it so hard they made it their bitch. 


I truly love Rick and Morty. I love their squanch. 

The official season 3 starts this Summer! 

R.I.P Birdperson 💔