It ran in our house! My grandparents caught it in the morning, stuck it in a bucket and told us to drive far far away and let it go. We went to church and children were amused by the furry living being, who was probably scared as fuck in its white hell hole.
On the way my mom said, "Grandpa always says he's annoyed the rabbit eats our flowers and veggies, but whenever the rabbit doesn't come at it's scheduled time of day grandpa turns to me and says...Ah? ...where is the rabbit?where did he go. I wonder if something happened..."
So we wonder if Grandpa hates or loves the rabbit, but i realize the many things we love we hate doing, just a little bit.
People with anger problems say they hate being angry, but can't stop when they start bombing. Some depressed people say they hate to be sad, but they keep on rehashing the things that make them cry. Crying and yelling are kind of orgasmic in their catharsis. And in the most wonderful and terrible ways, it is the things we find repugnant the things we keep needing. In order for the prince to love the princess that much more, he must slay a terrible dragon. Or else she's just a common whore on the 10th floor of some random building. Those who love resolution must also need conflict.
Whatever this rabbit is my Grandpa will miss waiting every evening and morning to chase it away.
Goodbye. Sorry for the scary car ride. Watch out for coyotes and cars and shit.
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