The moment you meet someone you want to talk to forever.
L.A. Weekly:So, do you have a cat?
Morrissey:I’ve had many, many, many.
L.A. Weekly:But you’re on the road.
Morrissey:Yes, it’s — I’ve had many, and many have passed away.
L.A. Weekly:That’s the worst part.
Morrissey:Horrendous, horrendous. It’s worse than a human passing away.
L.A. Weekly:Is it?
Morrissey:Yes, it really is.
Morrissey:Because you feel the cat doesn’t fully understand. They’re looking to you, they’re relying on you to get them through this, and you can’t . . . I’ve been in certain situations where I’ve had to terminate the life for the benefit of the cat and the pain is too much to bear. It’s insufferable. Because even as they get the final needle, they’re purring and they’re loving you and . . .
L.A. Weekly:I know, it happened to me, my dog, too. It was awful, because they gave him the shot of ketamine, so he became paralyzed, but he was still conscious and he couldn’t . . . then I thought, oh God, now where’s his spirit, because he doesn’t understand what happened?
Morrissey:And he is just assuming that if he is sitting next to you, he’s going to be okay.
L.A. Weekly:Was your cat maimed?
Morrissey:No, but he was very, very old, and he was arthritic, and he couldn’t go to the toilet properly and I would have to take him to the toilet, I’d have to do everything, but he was very, very happy, and as long as he was with me, he was thrilled to death. So, I held him at the last moment when they inserted the needle and, uh . . . I cried for hours and hours and hours. This sound came out of me, this sound of despair when he went, and I’d never heard it before.
Morrissey:Because I thought I’d be — I thought I could completely handle his death and I’d be fine. I’d look after him, I’d make sure everything was okay, and I’d make sure that his transition was as easy and comfortable as possible. And I howled.
L.A. Weekly:I mean, I still have moments where I grieve again, out of the blue — does that happen to you?
Morrissey:Of course! Of course! You miss your pets. You miss Sir Doo-Dah or whatever his name is . . . You miss them and you feel for them, and my cat was an incredible character. He wasn’t merely a cat, he was beyond human. He had the most incredible personality, an enormous personality, and as tough as, as they say, old boots, and I still miss him, I really still miss him. Sorry, I’m boring you stiff . . .
“Whenever anyone has called me a bitch, I have taken it as a compliment. To me, a bitch is assertive, unapologetic, demanding, intimidating, intelligent, fiercely protective, in control — all very positive attributes. But it’s not supposed to be a compliment, because there’s that stupid double standard: When men are aggressive and dominant, they are admired, but when a woman possesses those same qualities, she is dismissed and called a bitch.
These days, I strive to be a bitch, because not being one sucks. Not being a bitch means not having your voice heard. Not being a bitch means you agree with all the bullshit. Not being a bitch means you don’t appreciate all the other bitches who have come before you. Not being a bitch means since Eve ate that apple, we will forever have to pay for her bitchiness with complacence, obedience, acceptance, closed eyes, and open legs.”—Margaret Cho (via feministriots)
“When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking
your cup size, say A, hang up. When he says you gave him blue balls, say
you’re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble
gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep
your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her.
Then head-butt her. When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down
jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex for the second time and there is no
condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear
will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading:
“Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your
first feminist stand by leaving the classroom. When the boy you have a crush
on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not strike
back. When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his
wrists, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time.
When the skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do
not turn red. When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use
a screw driver, a beer bottle, your two good hands. When your father locks the
door, break the window. When a college professor writes you poetry and
whispers about your tight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait,
call the Dean, call his wife. When a boy with good manners and a thirst for
Budweiser proposes, say no. When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn
red. When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know. When
the girl on the subway curses you because your tee shirt reads: “I fucked your
boyfriend,” assure her that it is not true. When your dog pees the rug, kiss her,
apologize for being late. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in
Jersey City, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because you live
in Harlem, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because your air
conditioner is broken, leave him. When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your
apartment, leave him. When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment
hidden in the closet, leave him. Do not regret this. Do not turn red.
When your mother hits you, do not strike back.”—