Re-grets?

We don’t need no stinkin’ re-grets!

Frankie had a few regrets.

His were too few to mention.

Mine?

Well, I’ve never really wrestled with regret.

Not until now.

Regret is the distant desperate peep of a dying bird. It’s close to you. It’s so close that you can almost touch it, almost have an impact somehow. 

But no matter where you look, you can’t find it while it’s pathetic dying call pierces your heart. 

Regrets are slowly, mournfully resigned to doom while at the same time desperate to escape something they know is inescapable.

Stupid regrets, distracting me from my other distractions.

I wish I could feed my regrets to my cat.

He’d rip that dying little bird to shreds. After batting it around a bit, he’d crush its skull or pierce its heart with one of his cute little claws. It would be ‘by mistake’. 

But you know how these things go: You break it, you bought it, you bought it, might as well eat it.

Trevor would then eat it head first. That’s how he likes to eat birds. Though he seems to eat them all at once, he typically mows do…