Life is Like a Riddle Waiting for a Piece of Steel

"Oh wow," said Mr. Fritters, "have I got one for you!" Then stretched his neck to clean his underside. After a few licks he looked up and stared me dead in the face, peering through eye rockets, then spit me a riddle.

"Who needs a house? You need a house. Woohoo, purr purr well me, too. But who made the bed to lay down his head and now needs not one but one more than two?"

I contemplated smashing his brains straight out of his head but smiled instead and rubbed him behind the ears.

"I wonder who loves while love-me-nots dance through others' thoughts, and whose dreams and days seem to melt away when to live and to love is all that he sought?"

I knew, of course, that he was speaking of me after the first words had fallen from his mouth. But now I was starting to get angry. I think he may have sensed it because his hair rose on his back, and I swear I heard a hiss as his lips curled in a somewhat sinister smile exposing his teeth and his poo breath.

"And who stares into the mirror trying to smile while wiping away the tears, blaming others for his hardships, asking for handouts, boohoo'ing his follies and fears?"

It was obvious he was waiting for an answer. I knew he wanted me to say it and would have gone on forever. I smiled back at him and contemplated his criticism, his judgements, and calmly responded, "It's me."

Then I raised my arms and promptly hit Mr. Fritters with a shovel.

Mr. Fritters is not your friend.