When I was a kid, my parents got me a pair of pet bunny rabbits. I had always wanted pet rabbits, and I was freaking stoked. They were kind of on the old side–my dad’s friend had gotten the rabbits for his kids, but the kids were mean to them and didn’t take care of them, so they were given to me instead.
In my mind, owning pet rabbits was going to be the sweetest thing ever. They would hop around and cuddle me and eat carrots and nibble lettuce and nuzzle my fingers.
These rabbits were assholes. Looking back, it was because, duh, those other kids were abusive. But these rabbits bit and they would literally piss on you or anything nearby–and they had distance–and they mostly just sat around and pooped and hated me. tbf, they hated everyone, but I was the one who took care of them, and they hated me in particular because they saw me multiple times a day.
And it broke my little girl heart, because I’d wanted this happy bunny relationship so much and it ended up being this horrible nightmare.
Except sometimes, the bunnies would cuddle. I would never know why or when, but randomly they would come up to me and snuggle my hand and just accept that I was an okay human and those moments were bliss.
Anyway, writing is like that.
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