Hey Skeezix, You Ain't Cool.

Another what now? Mostly these days I'm trying to mollify Lucas. Seriously, an unmollied Luke is a slimy force to be reckoned with. A force of nurture. He comes over and starts imparting his customs and social cues to me, with a vengeance, like an angry mother chimp. Precisely like that, in fact. I'm still cleaning up from last time (I forgot to check under the couch).

The day our vacuum cleaner died a raccoon cub charged headlong into my bedroom window. It split the outside mesh from top to bottom when it bashed its head into it and almost tumbled off the roof. Now I think the ancient machine was the only thing keeping them out.

Maybe it threw off a supersonic carnivore-repellant hum. Possibly the raccoons carry a primeval awe akin to religion, focused by the totemic Hoover. I sealed all the windows and pushed a dresser in front of mine. I think I might board them up. Fools that we were to question those who came before us and left that vacuum behind. Too late I find faith in a bitter catechism of their scrabbling claws and the harpyish trill their frenzied cubs loose at the insane moon.