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Tuesday April 9, 2002 - 8:08 p.m. I truly, truly hate the mouse that Jason purchased (thanks to the Australians, I now cannot stop pronouncing that word pur-chased, as in chased me around the room) (now, what would Freud have to say about that example sentence? A hell of a lot, I'm sure). It has a roller ball thingie on it, like my old mouse that I loved so very, very much, only it's a stupid roller ball that only works sometimes and then not, and then when it does it just works allofasuddenlike and makes me all spaz and stuff. We won't get into much today, but I'll give a rundown of why I am just not myself lately, and Jason keeps asking me what's wrong and my mom keeps asking me what's wrong and everyone (okay, not everyone, but Jack did too) keeps asking me what's wrong: * No job. * No interviews. * Boredom so severe, it's like some kind of mythological punishment. Really. * Hardly any interaction with the outside world. * Every single minute morsel of food I place in my mouth makes my stomach hurt like it yearns to break free. And run, hair streaming behind it, with the other, wild stomachs. On the stomach plain. * Anything. Everything. Every piece of food. * Ev-ery-thing. * My teeth hurt too. * I may not be able to visit BigSabu next week, as planned originally. This all makes me cross. I don't like to be cross. I don't believe I am cross that often. I must not be, otherwise people wouldn't keep asking me why I'm not acting like me. But good things (I always have to do the good things. Have to. Otherwise, I feel like I'm back in the haze of fifteen, hunkered over my writing desk that smelled vaguely of starch, writing little, horrid letters. That's just too much, dear babies. So good things it is): * I got chocolates! In the mail! * Jack visited in her Penske. With her emotionally unbalanced cat. Jack's emotionally unbalanced cat, meet the Mlle's emotionally unbalanced cat. * Finally locating a non-destroyed copy of Bullfinch's Mythology. * Oooo! Mom reminding me of Gilbert, from back in Arizona. He sold tamales and wore halter tops and t-shirts with knots tied in them, up by his breastbone. I. Loved. Gilbert. Well. Ah, shite. Sorry about this entry, and its overwhelming stupidity. I will cook up something massive and magnificent for the next time. I promise. Hey, did you know Sylvia Plath wrote children's books? Love nibbles,
-Mlle R
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