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The Kiwi Enigma

            What is a Kiwi to you? Is it that weird ass fruit that tickles your throat when you don’t peel it properly? Or is it that lovely group of people those south Pacific islands that make even Canadians seem rude? Or is it a psychotic black and white domestic feline destined to ruin all sleep and eat the handles off of every fucking plastic bag in our house?

     For myself a Kiwi is all three. I am tied to the New Zealand country and it’s people (one sassy one in particular), I have a warped feline (redundant?) named after said country, and I don’t mind the fruit, as long as it’s peeled and smashed onto a whipped dessert of some nature.

   I can talk at length about the first Kiwi, about how she challenges me and encourages me to build a better version of myself day in and day out. My natural inclination towards being a brazen dick are deflected and replaced with the thoughts of the future and more complex challenges in life. I am simply better at being myself when she is around, even if that means being a better douche if the moment calls for it.

   I can also talk about the cat, the closest thing I will ever have to a child, considering a decision I made in my twenties involving the ‘snip’. It was actually a laser I think, but I was pretty doped up on Valium to remember the specifics accurately. Trained like a dog, we take this little kibble thief everywhere; camping, swimming, and leash-free romping through the woods. Everyone generally says that their cat is the best, but they can fuck off. That’s why Kiwi is the only cat I know with his own bridge.

And lastly I can talk about the fruit. But what the fuck is there to say about the fruit? I never buy it, barely eat it, and it’s overall effects on my life are inconsequential. So whatever a Kiwi is to you, rock on, I’m going to focus on the first two, cause they kick the shit outta that weird ass fuzzy fruit anyways.

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