Dearest Readers.
Some of you are not actually dear as I don't know you, yet I most certainly appreciate the myth I create in my poor cranium of fame, so suck it. Alas I've been out of the loving embrace of 852 for a while now, and am really starting to show the signs. I think I may have acquired actual homeostatic activity at this rate, something that my trust anatomy (lungs, heart, liver, namely) fend off with the utmost care. Such functions can only lead to one thing, the acquisition of a rump. Such horrid things are most certainly not permitted on my watch, thanks.
Wrestled with fate today over which Victor Hugo to purchase in Chapters (now in vancouver) twas a match to the death (or you know, purchase) 'tween les miserables and the hunchback ect. Quasi won, of course, because he was six canadians cheaper... a bad way to judge literature yet called for, on occasion. Also wrangled some poetry and what not.
I feel my core deteriorating in this homey environment. Considering my inner-clockwork is comprised of bloodies, shaved ice, salt, vocal chords, old ciggie ash, vodka-stained hat-bands, a lettuce leaf and a jute-box I haven't much show for wholesome pandering.
Yet, (and readers beware this information is very distressing), I actually had a genuine snowball fight with my two cousins of even & smallyearsold. It was picturesque, grotesque... and I fear actually jolly. I need some form of debauchery to save me or I shall find myself fast slipping into corduroys!
Turrah.
Jhonnie Cat
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