Battle or Y.B.P.M. didn't pay too much attention in philosophy class, just enough to mess it up and ignore the obvious.

Diary...such news.
I now know that my hunch was correct. Young Siward-Gainsville is indeed possessed by a daemonical force that resides in his hand. I assume that any semblance of a human soul he once possessed has long since been consumed. He is a soul-less husk of a boy. I should have known, no one can dress that snappily without making some deal with the forces of darkness. I confronted him as he was idly conversing with his nefarious digits; seeing me he panicked and his hand opened up a rift in the space-time continuum. I remember waking in a strange place, feeling like I do right before I attempt to speak to my dulcet darling...except with less vomit. It was the same room I had been in previously, except it was different. Father's manly decor (taxidermized fauna, various bladed and projectile weapons, and a cornucopia of empty bottles) had been replaced with lacy frills, soft pastels, and rose petals. Young Siward-Gainsville was dressed in homely rags with his hair a tattered mess. And he was tiny, dear diary. Those once taught, sinewy fibers had shrunken to a mere skeletal waste.
Obviously shocked, I looked in the mirror and saw...well, diary, it was a revelation. My royal-blue corduroy overall-shirt combo had turned into the finest of seersucker suits. My chiseled jaw jutted forth with the manly confidence of a panther in heat, and it was covered with millions of neatly trimmed Fredericks! And the muscles! Oh, diary, imagine the muscles...I had muscles from here to Tuesday! and felt every single rippling one as I sauntered over to my cowering enemy.
Unfortunately, Y.S.G. waved his hand yet again and I was suddenly back to the world of normalcy. As I was disgorging some Scrumptious Good Times, Y.S.G. used the opportunity to escape. After the tummy discomfort had subsided, along with my tears-thankfully I bring a spare pipette just in case I break out into a fit of spontaneous sobbing- I was able to process what had happened.
Clearly, Y.S.G. had propelled us out of the proverbial, Platonic cave and straight into the world of pure form! THIS MUST BE SO! The purest expression of myself is a demi-god with Gable-rific good looks, Y.S.G. is a simpering hobo, and the world is decorated with beautiful, beautiful pastel. He won't dare to battle me in that realm again, but now he knows that I will clearly emerge as victor in this paramortal combat. The victory will be mine!

Triumphantly,
Y.B.P.M.

P.S. If this was the world of pure form...why did the ScrumptiousGoodTimes taste like boiled cabbage? Hmmm.

fashionable faux-pas

Dearest Diary,

S.U.t.W. In shockingly unexpected news, Young Siward may not be such a bad chap after all. Not that I am forgoing my plan to destroy him, but I might feel a little more remorse after I do. I do not foresee, however, the event causing me to add to my tear-jar collection...though with my fertile ducts one never knows.

Y.S. is, despite his corrupted rust bucket of a soul, a most snappy dresser. Without any ulterior motive that I can glean, he complimented me on my most exquisite jacket...you know the one, diary, the one with the slimming lines and svelte charcoal wool construction, the manly epaulets and bold buttons. It is a fine jacket. One that has a thoroughly tough military pedigree yet with a lacy, electric blue liner that gently envelops me in satiny warmth. the kind of jacket that gains the affection of a lady...and apparently, Young Siward.

Apparently, Y.S. is quite the connoisseur of fine haberdashery. We had a three minute conversation about leather jackets that almost left me feeling something like an affinity towards the young, swarthy chap. I must not let this blind me though, many people appreciate clean lines, fitted cuts, and the fine art of pairing patterns and colors in bold but tasteful ways...
I must flaunt my jacket in front of Lady MacD. If the jacket inspired admiration in my most devoted enemy, imagine what it could fill my dulce de Mac-leche with :) !

yours in color-coordination,
Y.P.M.

Rain (or lack there of) Dance

Dear Diary,
I have momentarily put aside the rancorous ire Young Siward doth arouse in me in favor of a much more dastardly aversary: the weather.
Diary, how am I supposed to woo the Titania of my bottomless tenders when the RAIN WILL NOT STOP!? Diary, I apologize for the yelling (no such apologies for the implied interrobang, however), but I feel so powerless. My plans for lady MacD have been laid out with the care my gentle mother took in dressing me after a fragrant bath, yet despite EVERY effort the threat of incliment weather continues to dash the delicate song bird of my hopes against the moisty rock of...of...oh diary, I am so frustrated my metaphors are all in a tizzy!
I shall have to perform a "lack-of-rain dance." I am left with no other recourse. I am a desperate man-child Diary and my wilyness is to be feared. Cook said that she...he...

*On a very disturbing side-note, I am in doubt of Cook's gendered identity. She has the soft, supple hands of a matronly mammy yet with the deep, rich vocal timbre of a man. He has often nuzzled me and her few protruding whiskers poked and irritated my delicate skin, yet I did not recoil in discomfort because of the warm, cushy embrace of its bosomy voluptiosness...terrible thoughts.

ANYWAYS Cook has said that chicken feet brought to a slow boil, smothered in velvetta, and doused in the tears of an innocent will provide a charm that may be employed in the ritual. I am loathe to delve into my collection of chronologically itemized tear jars, but I suppose the situation warrants. I must take the charm and do a dance (Cook was non-specific...I hope my "excited dance" will count as that is the only dance I know besides the "Lindy Hop") that SHOULD forestall the heavenly precipitation that has been plaguing my efforts.
Well, Diary, wish me luck!

With love,
Y.P.M.