Today I dropped the class I hated, buried a little green snake, and stared at the clouds. They were most interesting. Like a big white pheonix flying out toward the atlantic, vicious wave.

I dreamed last night a bloody dream about Jack the Ripper. Today Fox and I bought a very old flag for five dollars. I couldn't tell whether there were 48 or 50 stars on it, but I didn't have time to count.

I have been reading the diary of Sylvia Plath, which makes me feel hollow. The title is hers. Could I write like that for me? Why should I? She's said over half of it for me anyway. I should just speak in Sylviaquotes and forget about it.

I just finished a test, which was incredibly poorly written andf full of typos and fox is coming to pick me up and we will probably chatter in character about Michael and Henry and their adventures across the country playing sniper shows to befuddled hicks. These are our daily devotionals, our prayers to the God of Story, and he laps them up, it seems. Hallelujah, glory be. *grin*

Remus, whom I really hope you don't know well, came out on the bus today. He smiled, finding himself enabled by up-front eyes and flesh. Then he realised that all he could really do was fantasise about the things he wanted to do, just like the rest of his existance, and retreated to sulk. He wants a story.

You see, that's what he does, Remus-Bunnicula-the-Prick. He tells stories.

I suppose it's a coincidence (I'm sitting in the school library) that I look over and the book that I see is The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. We read something today about Hitler and wolves. Stephen's a wolf, but then, he's a dead nazi too. We're working on a dead nazi faq, but we lost it. damn IE.

Why don't you go look at some new and old poetry of mine?

You see. I am SO not Sylvia.

<<agé chose>>

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