Five Things To Be Happy About:

1. Walking through fallen, crunchy leaves on the way to the mailbox
2. Princess's return (soon, I hope!)
3. Wearing my favorite wool sweater
4. Sleeping with cute kitties
5. The sun on my cheeks

(In this time of major global sadness, I'm finding the need to concentrate on small, personal happinesses.)

Beetlejude! Beetlejude! Beetlejude!

What's Your Monster Match?
(Stolen from dch4 who stole it from scottopic)

Ghost

You're a fun loving prankster, always with a joke up your sleeve. That's why your monster match is a ghost. Your bag has more tricks than treats, but you can take it as well as you can dish it out. You're a witty spirit who loves a good hoot, and echoing laughter like you'd hear in the halls of a haunted house. Part ghoul, part Beetlejuice, you are the ghost with the most, the phattest phantom, a real graveyard smash.

Whether you're going to a costume party or throwing your own BYOB séance (Bring Your own Ouija Board), you mingle with different social groups as if walking through walls. But you ghosts take care. You love getting a good behind-the-door scare almost as much as you love giving them, but those with bad tickers and tempers might not appreciate your spooky sense of humor. Use your inner poltergeist sparingly and you'll never have to worry about getting "busted."

And for that, you suck.

Attention You-Who-I-Will-Not-Name-In-Public:

If you EVER, EVER even so much as HINT that I am in some way playing Christina like a game again, there will be hell to pay.

Fuck you.

From the paper journal:

anger balled in tight fists like
hard-packed ice balls,
frozen,
and, like cold projectiles,
mar my face with
bruises and
dripping water.

(30 July 2001)

~//~

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of the Chapel were shut,
And "Thou Shalt Not" writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

(William Blake, The Garden of Love)