"I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself"

Dear Diary,
I am listening to the stylings of Burt Bacharach on father's gramophone. Current mood: incredulous. Oh this song gets right to the heart of the matter! Dearest keeper of my musings and mutterings, I don't know what to do with myself...do doo do do. It seems the fates are more than contented to give me vague prophecies and hopes only to dash them against the boulder of ironic hilarity! Last week's festival fiasco was bloody mess; my vest is ruined. I DID lick lady MacD's earlobe, which was some small consolation, but not much.
Diary, I am at a crossroads. I have so many diverging paths of inquiry that I feel overwhelmed by the mere possibility of choosing one over the other! I must approach this in a systematic fashion.

• Figure out the nature/cause of my fits
• Just what does father do for a living?
• Is Young Siward-Gainsville's hand really possessed?
• *side point* does Y.S.G. try to foil my efforts because he is (gag) jealous of my attentions?
• Why does Unca Macbeth love cats so much?
• Does Gilmer really love me, or was she merely seeking more of the "Ambrosia de Malcolm" that was covering my face?
• Would marketing "Ambrosia de Malcolm" be a lucrative business venture?
• Is there a second Gilmer, or was it merely a chappy witch lady?
• Why is there a talking manwich?
• Do I go after my Dulcet darling, Gilmer 1, Gilmer 2, or simply move to Utah and become a Mormon like that creepy chick-lit writer? *Note to self* "Spidermonkey" does not a good pet-name make.
• Why do I feel the compulsion to free myself from my cottony confines everytime I start to think about freeing Tibet?
• Would leaving a plate of poisonous cupcakes around...perhaps in nose-shot of the MacDuff household...be murder in the strictest sense?
• Would that qualify to be put on father's "enemies no more" chart? you know the one that looks like a fundraiser thermometer? Mine is embarrassingly low (actually, I am in the negatives...after I accidentally told Lady Lennox that father was planning to "Off Angus." In my defense I thought that meant he was going to let him go on vacation). Father might be pleased.
• Is Wu-Tang really forever?
• Does the invention of compact discs negate the mystique of the "secret song?"

Oh, Diary, my lines of inquiry are so many...but I believe I can knock at least one off the list. The answer is "Yes, Wu-Tang is forever."

Illily yours,

Y.B.P.M. (a.k.a. Jimmy Analog)

Dearest Diary,
Your ruffles do always comfort me so, as do your firm -yet supple- pages. After last weeks bout of possible skullduggery, I have been flying "incognito" as they say. TTND 1 and 2 have been giving me such trouble. I am wracking my nubile little brain trying to arrive at some definitive answer, but to no avail. But, fear not! I have a plan...
I have heard tales of these magical pleasure machines called "kissing booths" set up for a non-committal exchange of the smoochies. The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest is fast approaching, and guess who has registered to man the aforementioned booth? Hmmm?! MEE!
I shall determine, by way of my impeccable recall of sensual memory, which of the two redheaded rapscallions gave me my first chocofly kiss. I have been going through chapstick like Unca Macbeth goes through Meow mix in an effort to give the two old boys a head start and keep the ladies happy.
I must now go about making sure all parties will be in attendance, I wonder if father would follow through with his threat of live burial if I use his printing press again? For love...I'll risk it; who knows? Maybe my matronly morsel might stop by and solve my dilemma once and for all :)

In anticipation of snogging,
Y.B.P.M.

Toil, Trouble, and FunNubbles

Ooooooooh.....Diary.

You must imagine my pen as a secretive, terrified whisper along your page. For the tale I am about to relate surely demands it.

Diary, my curiosity outweighed my sheer, unadulterated terror, and I ended up following NotGilmer on her accursed path. I stayed a good distance behind, afraid my heavy breathing may awaken her...or...IT rather, to my presence. Often, in the night Father (4 doors down) complains of it disturbing his slumber, so surely it would alert this unworldly thing that no doubt had the heightened senses of Unca Macbeth's prize genetically altered feline, The Professor.

Of course, I was still without a shoe and my SpongeBob sock did make an awful crunching noise on the forest floor (yes...THE FOREST). AND I stepped on THREE pebbles that hurt something awful. In order to stifle this unfortunate noise as well as shelter my little naked foot against the treacherous ground, I was forced to sacrifice my fashionable summer scarf. I tied it in a giant, cushion-y wad over my foot. Father would be so proud of my resourcefulness! Another plus, my subsequent uneven gait made me feel much like a fearsome pirate!

Even though I had a scarf leg, rather than a peg leg.

And no sword.

Or ship, as it were.

The illusion, however, did embolden me to some degree as the sun began it's descent, and the shadows crept in all around me. Luckily, my best vest is fitted enough that one button missing didn't disturb it's deliciously tailored appearance. Nothing makes one braver than a nicely tailored vest.

We reached a clearing deep in the wood, and NotGilmer finally slowed. I tucked myself behind a tree nearby, covering my face (still sticky from Gilmer/NotGilmer's chocolatey saliva) with leaves and grit to conceal my appearance. And then?

She began to sing.

Her siren call brought forth two more...beings...into the clearing. I recognized one as the Talking ManWitch! The other? Well I'm confident she was the dusky hued Lady Satan that took DonalBORING on his "Cruise to Nowhere".

It was not long before the three weird kind-of-but-not-really sisters began singing together over a steaming pot of what smelled not entirely unlike my favorite stew that Cook used to make.

Oh, Cook! Shim used to make me that warm delicious FunNubbles stew whenever I was feeling cold and lonely.

Which was almost all the month of January.

Once they threw a hard-used Squirtten into the pot, I was out of there like the fat kid in dodge ball.

Oh DIARY, you SEE how fear makes me crass?

I ran straight home, caring not for the briers and brambles slowly but surely shredding my scandalously scintillating summer scarf, and straight up here to record my observations in you, my dearest devourer of dark, dastardly....d....d....secrets.

DEEDS! Dark, dastardly DEEDS!

Anyway, it is clear to me, and I'm sure to you Diary, that these THINGS, and this NotGilmer are:

WITCHES.

Oh yes.

I said it.

And now, I still know not whether I am covered in the saliva of the Devil's Dam or that of my almost-goddess....my divine bit of "special"...

And if I HAVE been kissed by Lucifer's Mistress....does this mean it was the dirty kind? The kind of kiss reserved only for a late night NASCAR victory party?

And even MORE questions are raised! Has Gilmer gotten her Butterfly devouring knowledge of transformative powers from these three hellions? OR, is the reverse true? Are the three midnight hags (except that's it only 9!) haunting TTND because this is HER discovery?!

?!?!?!?!

Dammit. Now I KNOW I've used my interrobang quota for the day. Maybe even the WEEK.

Oh Diary, I'm not sure how to proceed! So many things happening at once. This morning I was an unkissed wisp of a boy, and this evening I'm a face-licked, witch-hunting piece of ManCandy!

How quickly bright things come to confusion!

To bed, to bed.

To bed.

Ever Yours,

Y.B.P.M.

When Two Is Too Much

Dear Diary ...

It is you, Diary, isn't it? Some sneaky varlet didn't steal into my lodgings and replace you with a paper doppelganger whilst I was taking third naps, did they? Did they?!!

Forgive me, Diary, my sweet. I know it is you and only you, for there on the back end paper is an identifying thumbprint I cast in pamcake syrup, just for this very security. But oh, how the rest of my day has been flipped, and perhaps even turned upside down. And I pray your fibrous patience as I take a minute or three to detangle myself from this icky, sticky cobweb of a day.

Seconds after The Touched One completed her departing scamper, I must confess that I was taken by an overpowering Swoon.

This hasn't happen'd often, mind you. The Swoon. Or as Chef called them, those times when I've DFO'd (Done-Fell-Out'd). Once was on the afternoon that I learned for certain that dear Mother had left us indeed. But another was when I "Lindy Hop'd" solo from dusk 'til dawn on an implied dare from Lady Lennox -- see if she ever slurs a challenge of "Oh, I doubt you'd last a minute, Bonnie" again. (Though she wasn't there to see my all-night recital, having been called back to Tijuana for another mission trip, I consider the argument won on grounds of principle.) So I have come to see these instances of consciousness lost as portents of great importance.

Minutes later, my Swoon of Destiny completed, I picked my still reeling self from the ground and considered my surroundings. Yes, I was still in the Royal Yard. Yes, my face was still a bit damp from an unexpected application of apparent desire. And yes, she had left behind a half-empty box of butterflied chockies! Opportunity came a-rushing up to my front portico door, Diary, and it made such a great knockina-noise! So I answered by picking up the half-empty ... no, half-full! With a half-full box of insectual confections under my sinewy arm, I strode around the side yard and made a bee-line for El Yardo del Gilmer!

But no sooner had I come 'round the corner, when what to my bleary eyes should appear not one Gilmer sitting cross-legged in the grass, flicking inchworms centimeters back in their progress ...

But two.

Not wishing to impose myself upon a possible twin -- mayhap she's been hidden in the attic all the while -- without being properly introduced, I hid in one of Father's prized fig copses and considered the sight before me.

There they were, side by side. I turned my head to the side as I've seen inquisitive hounds do, thinking that perhaps my noggin was jarred still from the fall that accompanied my Swoon. But even horizontally, there they were. Two Gilmers. Two of the one.

And they were moving in tandem, only without the assistance of a bicycle. One would flick and so would the other. One would giggle at a passing bit of tumble-fluff and so would the other. I was nigh mesmerized by this harmony of image when one said to the other, "Well, this'as been fun!" The other answered with a nod, "Well! This 'AS been fuuuuun!" Somewhere, a servant played a theremin. And with that, the Gilmer on the left leapt in place, landed on here-to-fore hidden roller skates and iced across the turf, disappearing into the house.

This left a single Gilmer. Almost imperceptively, the wind shifted from a gentle breeze to something more insistent.

And before I could reassign myself to the delivery at hand, this remaining Gilmer's visage of mind-blasted bliss shifted into one that knew far too much. The grin was replaced by a commanding smirk. And the next flick? Why it sent that poor inchworm some five meters through the empty air. That's like from here to Audi Arabia for such a widdle creature! I had to stifle an eeking of "Eep!" as this more-and-more Un-Gilmer Gilmer rose slowly and deliberately, dusted off her arms and stood much taller than her counterpart, as if filled from top to toe with a purpose I dare not consider. Shifting only her dark-cast eyes, the surveyed her surroundings. Did she see me? Did she? I thought for a moment she had, as the blood in my calves ran cold, though perhaps I had chosen poorly a stance for skulking.

Flaring a single nostril, her smirk became a very satisfied whiplash of a smile and she turned to walk away. Walk, I say, not roll. Her hands curling into and out of fists as she went, each step seemed to burn a print of pride and avarice to mark her path.

Once sure of her distance, I fled back to my room, to you, Dear Diary. The box of butterfly-chocs were lost in my panicked flail-run. As was a single shoe and a button from my best vest. But I had to find something of certainty.

Who was this Other-Gilmer? And if there are two Gilmers, which is which? If one can so resemble the other, which was the Gilmer who made me AWLL KWEEN?!? Darn me and my amorous desirings, as I didn't even take note of her footwear! Darn me all the way to Heck!

Was she rolling, Dear Diary?!

WAS SHE ROLLING OR WALKING?!!?

Yours tremulously,
Y.B.P.M the ... Other-Smooched?

The...kiss

Diary...

Slightly less S.U.t.W. As I write this, you might notice my youthful exuberance has diminished. I believe I have finally become a man. That's right diary, the deed was done. I collected enough specimens to make an acceptable present to the fair Gilmer. I gave her the box of chocolates, filled with a plethora of richly colored butterflies. She devoured them with a lusty glee, covering her face with bits of wing and nougat. Halfway through the thorax of a particularly succulent monarch she stopped and smiled. She stood up, wiped most of the remainder from her mouth...then and then...asdf980uhjirorgiok.grreh m,jkegjlkgsdljk;vcxkhdgzviogsd

OH! Diary, I should know better than try to write an entry right before 2:00. Where was I, let me read and...Oh, yes...Diary, um, so...I was about to divulge the juicy details of my newfound "experience" in the ways of love. I must confess to dipping into the exotic trail mix to ease my nervousness, but the churning of my stomach told me that butterflies and snickers do not make good stomach fodder. I gulped as she stared into my eyes with a look that I can only assume was desire. She blurted out "You Burfflyes and Chocate!?" before I could respond, she pressed her decidedly non-chappy lips against my own! Her sweet, soft, tender pillows of pleasure worked their way all across my face! She made these odd slurping sounds that, I must admit frightened me a bit, but I braved the terror and enjoyed the ride of my young, bonny life! Eventually, she stopped, pushed me to the ground, and proclaimed "AWLL KWEEN!" and scampered off, her red pigtails bouncing to the throbbing of my thrice beating heart!

Diary, her voracity was so thorough, all the butterfly and chocolate I had foolishly forgotten to clean off my face was gone! What a woman! Clearly she will remember me as she slimes her way into a cocoon (and my heart) and emerges as a mighty demigoddess! I shall be her man-queen (What would one call the male lover of a demigoddess?)! Maybe she'll share the secret and I shall become a god as well. I hope I get wings.

In post-make-out-glow,
Y.B.P.M the Smooched

Sunshine Dust

Diary,

S.U.t.W, but let's skip with the pleasentries, I think Gilmer might be a goddess; possibly a demigoddess. My delicious TTND has a healthy appetite for the luscious lepidoptera, so I took it upon myself to gather several specimens and daintily display them in a tin of chocolates. As grotesque a spectacle as it might seem, I did so only because the sight of her munching on the winged creatures in a chipmunkish fashion filled me with such feelings...lets just say that the catalytic converter was not catching all the pollutants, if you know what I mean! Teehee.

As I was collecting the specimens, I noticed that the poor delictables were losing a powdery substance on my fingers. I was shocked and let this antennaed aliment go free, but it was unable to flap its way to safety.

Diary, I believe my ginger princess might have method to her madness. These butterflies (which is a complete misnomer by the way...CrunchyDirtFlies would be much more applicable...I mean...I didn't...what? I didn't say anything.) seem to have the transformative powers of a god. Once those horrid grub-fingers slime and ooze their way into that rancid sack, they emerge weeks later as a magnificent, beautiful flower... I don't think my obligatory metaphor was required in this case...Anyway, I believe my carrot-top-carbuncle is trying to transcend to the next plane of existence by consuming the "sunshine dust" of these winged insects.

Surely she must be a goddess, how else could her strange behavior be explained!? As spunkily delicious as she is now, imagine the wonder that would be the post-cocoon Gilmer (assuming the transition from human to god requires a cocoon)! I have continued to collect many more glorious proboscised pabulum for my ravenous red-head. Oh, diary how she will thank me! She will swoon, or possibly totter and fall like a newborn babe, and glubber some generous thank you, followed by a...dare I hope...large, sloppy kiss!? oooh! GLEE!

Diary, I must go and continue the search for more of the magic bugs...bugs, so callous a word for such a magnificent ticket to sweet, sweet loving.

In breathless anticipation,
Y.B.P.M.

Peppermint Pillow

Diary.

Diary, Diary, Diary.

(Diary.)

I handed out my fliars to anyone who would accept them. This, unfortunately was about 4 people, one of which may or may not have been a lady. So, I took the rest of my fliars and wallpapered the town square with them! Oh, how lovely they looked! Alas, it draws near 2pm and I see no one approaching.

I will tell you what I DO see though Diary....I see Gilmer, my delightful "Touched by an Angel" neighbor.

She's out in mother's garden chasing butterflies like a playful little kitten. I think she just ate one.

SIGH. She is awfully charming. Well, at least I know that she will be here for the viewing of my fit. Perhaps it will illicit in her the profound need to hold me, and put her fingers in my nostrils like I saw her do to cousin Ross yesterday.

Wait a minute. What's this?!

DIARY.

I'll B.R.B!

......

I? AM ANGRY. So angry in fact that my blinding RAGE has actually PREVENTED my 2pm fit. I will note this new development. I am positively FUMING. I can FEEL my blood boiling. I am practically foaming at the mouth. Oh, wait. That's just saliva mixing with my tears.

Diary, I rushed down to the garden because I saw none other than Young Siward approaching my Ginger Gem as she gnawed off the wing of a monarch.

I wonder if there's a hidden metaphor to be discovered there.

ANYWAY.

Young Siward held out his DEMONIC HAND for her to hold and pulled her up off the ground, asked her if she'd care for a "sammich" and then stole my Special Needs Siren away.

Where could he and his Demon Digits be taking her?!

Oh WHY must he constantly thwart me!

The only good news of the day thus far is that tonight, I am told, Unca Macbeth comes with his Cat Circus, which is always a good show. My personal favorite is Doctor Whiskerkins who catches flaming bowling pins on his nose. Regardless, he is nearly always joined by MacDuff which means...thank the heavens...I may see my Lady Lemondrop this evening. Together, we will enjoy the many wonders of Viscount Reginold Litterpants, the tight-rope walking tabby and maybe a sip or two of Giggly Water under the table.

Maybe I can "accidentally" lick her earlobe when I lean in to ask her some benign question like "Did you see my fliars?" or "Have you seen any good talking pictures lately?" I hear earlobe licking is one of "the signs" in some cultures.

Farewell for now Diary. I must depart and wander the garden for any sign of Gilmer, or that dastardly villain, Young Siward.

Yours in Perpetual Rage and Yet Marginal Excitement,

Y.B.P.M.