Gilmer

Oh Diary,

I had just finished reading the last of the delightfully white-trash, car-themed novellas (Red means GO!) When I happened to look outside and I saw the most curious creature. It was a lady, diary, but not like Lady MacD. She had no elegant, maternal charm, nor was her decorum indicative of a proper understanding of social morays. No. Diary, she wore the most...er..."imaginative" assortment of garments I have ever seen bedeck an individual (Diary, can I use "bedeck" in that way? OH! That's right, silly me, you and your analog wonder don't critique me with silly things like "spelling" or "sentence fragment;" that is why I love you so).

As I stared in quizzical wonder at this ginger creature gingerly try to rollerskate on the front lawn, I was overcome with something like...well...like what is described in those books. I felt a whole slew of car related metaphors jump to mind! Sure she was dressed like a third-hand store exploded, sure she was trying, valiantly I might add, to rollerskate in mother's old flower-bed, but Diary, she was so delightfully precious! She would get frustrated and plop down in one huge "Harrumph!" with her arms crossed and her sideways ponytail bouncing alongside her. Oh, Diary, my fuel intake valve was grinding its windshield wiper brakes! Oh, yes, I went there diary!

I ran downstairs and asked father about the precocious spunkster, and he told me that the fair creature's name was "Gilmer." Oh, Diary, what a lyrical name...Gilmer...GIL-mer. Oooh, I feel all twitterpated! Anyways, father told me that she lives next door, but is slightly "touched." I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but it must mean that she has been touched by the divine, for she truly is. Even right now, as I write this, she is vigorously plucking blades of grass while shaking her head back and forth while raspberrying like a fiend...a cute, adorable fiend. Diary, what am I to do!? Her adorability simply knows no bounds!

Diary, am I betraying my dulcet darling by having these feelings? I don't know. I feel torn. Maybe some sleep will solve the issue. Goodnight Diary, goodnight my dulce-de-Macleche, goodnight my "touched tom-boy next door."

Yours,

Y.B.P.M.