Flowers in an almost clean house.
03.17.02 - 9:08 a.m. Bleary-eyed Rabbit gently caresses the keys in half-hearted attempts at conciousness and Fox is immortilizing herin oil pastel. Hee. We don't have anything legitimate to do until 2, when we are going to see local and lovely queerboys and retirees perform HMS Pinafore. Andre should be ecstatic. English sailor guys on boats. My parents had toyed with coming today, but we'd already bought the tickets. So they are not. Fortunately or not, we'd already scrubbed about half the house within an inch of its life before they cancelled. I'd even bought flowers. Purple ones and eucalyptys sprigs. I defy you, spell check. My dad will be 50 years old tomorrow. Eek. My latest project: typing up my 11th grade english journal so I can get rid of the papers. I realise that burning it gloriously would in some ways be more satisfying and possibly posess a symbolism in keeping with my current feeling, but. Call me nostalgic, call me sentimental, just don't call me late for dinner. Besides. I prefer 'Brilliant' and 'Legendary' thank you very much. Hopefully the rain has not destroyed the twig house I built the other day. It's so pretty. Both. Yes.
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