Randy Heflin Jr.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 6:18 PM
Text to Dulce: “Harold ate one of my chicken nuggets COME GET YOUR MANS.”
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 9:00 AM
I had my bedroom window open because Phoenix was nice for once. It was a Monday. The unemployment office telling me I didn’t make enough money to qualify for unemployment. The Suns were on a six game winning streak. People were mad on the internet. I went back to the place where my inner peace lies: sleep.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 12:30 PM
I woke up to my phone buzzing, which makes sense because I had a dream I was in an earthquake. So much for inner peace. It was my mom in the living room. She’s still working from home because God did a reboot of trying to flood the earth. (In the Old Testament, God reduced the lifespan of humans because we were fucking up shit so much. God parted the clouds and said, “I hate y’all n****s.” God is a trans black dinosaur so they can say it. Don’t google it though.) My mom said she was going to the McDonald’s down the street and asked if I wanted anything. Bless her heart. Instead of getting up and walking into the living room, I did the logical thing and texted her back, “I would like some chicken nuggets with buffalo sauce please.” She replied “Do you want fries?” I replied with black thumbs up emoji.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 12:45 PM
Chicken nugget time.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 12:46 PM
The beast has awoken. Hailing from the Arizona Humane Society. Weighing in at eight years old, eight pounds. Lil Sneeze, AKA Joe Purrow, AKA Loaf of bread soft like your girlfriend’s loafers, AKA The Baguette Baron, AKA Harold. He smells food and he smells fear. (And sometimes he smells my farts and he makes a face.) He proceeded to do his post-nap ritual. The yawn, showing his fangs made for lightly chomping on your flesh when you rub his belly for too long. The stretch, exposing his claws meant to rip through unsuspecting crickets. The strut, letting you know who really runs this two-bedroom apartment. He headed into the living room, and for a foolish moment I thought my nuggets were safe. Harold’s had me for five years now and I should know better. He comes back into my room. I could tell he was bored. He had already seen the episode of Columbo my mom had on. He looked at me. I looked at him, nugget in hand. “How do you wanna do this, pardner?” he asked. I dipped the nugget in buffalo sauce, took a bite, and rubbed nugget dust on the napkin next to me. “These nuggets are mine, Harold. Fair and square. Move along, little kitty.” He took his time sniffing the air. His yellow eyes locked into attack mode. (My favorite modes are cute mode and sleep mode.) “Ha…ha…ha…we’ll see about that, pardner.” I continued with my ten piece. He slowly sauntered over to the open window sill. He likes watching the birds. For practice.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 2:00 PM
I have a small stomach so I eat like a bird and I can already feel the salty embrace of a food coma coming on. But, I have to keep going. But, what if I lay down and don’t fall asleep?
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 6:15 PM
I woke up in a panic like an actual earthquake was happening. (I’m starting to think I’ll never find inner peace.) It took me a few seconds for my brain to reboot its systems. Eyes: operational. Motor skills: operational. Back: operational? Lights were on. TV was on. Everything was how I left it before I passed out. Except Harold. I looked over to the tray table where I had my meal and did a 1st grade math problem. If I had ten nuggets and ate six, how many nuggets do I have left? But four didn’t make sense. There were only three nuggets on the plate. A calculator dropped from the top of the closet. “Might wanna check your math, pardner.” Harold is looking down on me. First he meows, then sneezes. “You wanna see a dead body?” he asked me. I turned back to look past the tray table. On the floor, a half eaten chicken nugget. “Can’t wait to do this dance again,” he said. I tilted my head down. Put my hand over my mouth.
Monday, January 24, 2022 – 6:21 PM
Text from Dulce: THAT’S MY BOY!
Randy Heflin Jr. is a desert rat through and through. When he’s not dreading turning 30 this year, you can find Randy watching wrestling, hosting trivia, and dipping hot cheetos in queso. He is not (mentally) healthy. Please, someone get your mans. How many fruit snacks can someone eat in a day? I don’t know but we’re about to find out.
Write On, Downtown 