Been crabby lately. And I’ve been experiencing real animosity towards my stuffed toys. The hungry caterpillar has hidden my stationery more than once, and even Bonjela is not spared from being hurled across the room. But that’s half of the purpose of our stuffed toys, no? They willingly bear such abuse without so much as a peep out of them.

So much for people.

There was little girl
who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad, she was horrid.

This feeling makes me want to go out and stomp on all the crocuses and bend all the lampposts in two all the better to see them with. And then I would climb up the tower and clang on all the bells until they tip off the top and crush the people on the plaza below.

I have a feeling a large part of this is brought on by the profound meaninglessness of the things I do or write now.



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