"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)

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.