Kitty Malört

Kitty got a law degree, but worked at a junk shop. Later she dissapeared entirely.  


Past years have seen the rise of female krewes, as well as the advent of several new specialty krewes that have been granted a coveted spot on a parade route. SHUN feels that there should be plenty of room for all in our burgeoning, brave new New Orleans, and, genuflecting before progress and changing demographics, submits the following ideas for krewes we’d like to see hitting the streets in the future:

Krewe of I Don’t See You

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My Dearest Miranda,

It’s been a great run, hasn’t it? But I’m afraid the time has come to say goodbye.

I’ll miss you; be assured I’ll always miss you. Your shiny blonde hair, your smooth, flawless skin, your conveniently-placed holes. I’ll miss the distant stare in your eyes and that adorable, open-mouthed expression of surprise that is your trademark. I’ll miss your flexibility, your patience with my idiosyncrasies, and the economy of your conversation. Your demure, retiring nature that belies your utter depravity in the sack. You’re as close to an ideal woman as they make them, dearest.

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One summer I worked night shift at a junk mail factory.

My chief occupation was sorting envelopes; doing this for eight hours at a stretch will rip your cuticles completely apart.  I liked to imagine the expressions on people’s faces when they received the bloodied envelope promising them cheap life insurance or a chance at the big money prize.

Nobody was really there at night except the sorting crew and the night manager. She had a huge scar across her stomach from some kind of medical procedure that involved taking out parts of several of her internal organs and a couple whole ones.  For a long time after the surgery, she said, she would lie awake at night and feel her guts sloshing around, rearranging and adjusting to all the newly emptied-out space inside her “like a fucking alien squishing around in there.”

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