From the Snake’s POV
I am always so angry, but you would be too if every time you slithered into a room, even on your happiest days — especially on your happiest days — on the day that you start to think that maybe your life might have meaning, on the day you have your head in the clouds because you met somebody amazing. And what do you know? It looks like everyone can see that you have got your shit together, they are giving you a standing ovation, making way for you — finally, the respect that you deserve.
You walk across the room, minding your business, people-watching, trying to soak it all in and what do you hear but this loud, aggravating, blood-curdling screech? What do you see but sticks and stones meant to break your bones?
They dress up their saliva-peddling, pretentious — who is really that happy? — tick-infested, always scratching idiots. Those tail-wagging sellouts get belly rubs and scratches behind their ears and depending on how white the human is, lots of kisses and nobody complains of how cold their noses are. Everything around here reeks of double standards.
And why are they always screaming? I have rights too, you know? They scream at me and then let those insolent hissing devils in through the front door. I can understand the appeal of “man’s best friend” — ewww — but what is the idea behind those tantrum-infested balls of fur?
They scratch up your homes, and slap you across the face when they feel like it — when they feel like you have been on the phone for too long when they think it has been too long since you fed them. They sit on your things like they own them, and treat you like they own you and somehow, they get more respect than I do.
You would spit on you too if everyone that you thought was getting to know you because of the little dance they did when they felt you sliding up their legs flirtatiously might I add rejected you by flinging you across the room.
One minute you are on your way to the promised land, you have deluded yourself into thinking that you have an understanding with this one person, you are starting to feel like this one person sees you, and knows you, and the next, you are being hurled across the room. All that begging in secret to be denied in public.
You would hate it here too if everyone judged you by the way you walked and based on a story that some idiot told a long time ago. Almost like being hated for the colour of your skin. One would think that the black ones would get it. That we would at least be allies or something but they scream the loudest and every time they see you, they call you “Blood of Jesus!” and “Jesus Christ!” and proclaim that you “Die! Die!, Die!”.
