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.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Influenza blues (with a boozy upside)
Dearest Diary,
Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt that Young Siward is evil, but never doubt, though temporarily absent, I love (well, I wouldn't really doubt the "Young Siward is evil" part)!
Diary, oh my little papyrus homunculus, I am ill! Well, actually, I am recovering, but STILL! Oh, the influenza always brings out the poet in me :sigh:.
Diary I have laid in my downy comforter for five straight days! Cook has brought me copious amounts of chicken soup, "Scrumptious Good Times," and beets. I wanted blueberry pamcakes, but Cook says that they would make my dainty stomach "uncomfortable." Diary, non of these normally glorious foodstuffs have brought me any comfort. I lounged in my silk jammies moping and stroking Frederick's abandoned home (I get sentimental when sick) hoping that my sweet- MY "Scrumptious Good Time" would come and visit her poor, courtly lover. Alas, I was left to cough and sniffle in silence. Diary, I honestly don't know how much of my moisture stained hanky is from post-nasal drip or tears. I do not know. I. do. not. know.
There was one upside, Father introduced me to a most interesting beverage: a "Hot Toddy." Diary, this little drink was a miracle! Father would not tell me what went in to this veritable witches brew of warm, fuzzy delight. I suspect father must get sick a lot, for there was something in the Toddy that reminded me of the way father smells when I sneak into his bed for warmth in the winter-time. What strange dreams were produced by this magical concoction!
My dream was so vivid! I awoke terrified, but laughed the dream off as silly and ridiculous. Still, the over-wrought and sickly manifestations of my brain caused me considerable distress. I dreamed that father had been murthered! And by Uncle Macbeth no less! On the plus side, when I discovered this, Lady MacD pressed her "Rolled Bureks" to me in a show of comfort. I cried because I was so emotionally conflicted! Then I sat around for a while, and then I was in England for some reason and was absolutely horrid to Macduff (though he probably deserved it for leaving lady MacD alone).
It was then that I received the worse news of all! My Dulcet Peach had been murthered as well! Diary, I was crushed beyond belief! But, oh Diary, the strangeness only continued to occur. On hearing of my dear one's death, Frederick's progeny erupted into a veritable mane of animalistic proportions! My voice dropped an entire octave! And I even engaged in physical warfare. Diary, you could not imagine my surprise when I wielded a knife in mortal combat...though I slashed no one I can remember, surely my manly conquests outnumbered the imaginatively prevalent hairs on my dream-induced chest. Then, lo and behold, father had returned in the guise of an old, swarthy Englishman...Old Siward (Young Siward's "father"). This was a most disturbing plot-twist and one from which I dare not dwell (except that nobody save me seemed to care much about Y.S. demise...which I maintain was because I wanted to do him in myself).
It all ended with me becoming king of Scotland. The end. Nothing more. There was nothing else that happened...nothing.
Anyway, I think we have all learned a valuable lesson about how wonderful and calamitous Hot Toddies are.
Yours in absolute, no-holdsbarred truth,
Y.P.M.
OH DIARY, I cannot lie to you! Something else did happen. In the dream Macduff tenderly placed his arm on mine to pronounce me king of Scotland...and I felt...a connection. I don't know what that means, but I am frightened. Nevertheless, I am determined to pursue the more feminine of the two Macduffs until Birnum Wood do come to Dunsinane.
Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt that Young Siward is evil, but never doubt, though temporarily absent, I love (well, I wouldn't really doubt the "Young Siward is evil" part)!
Diary, oh my little papyrus homunculus, I am ill! Well, actually, I am recovering, but STILL! Oh, the influenza always brings out the poet in me :sigh:.
Diary I have laid in my downy comforter for five straight days! Cook has brought me copious amounts of chicken soup, "Scrumptious Good Times," and beets. I wanted blueberry pamcakes, but Cook says that they would make my dainty stomach "uncomfortable." Diary, non of these normally glorious foodstuffs have brought me any comfort. I lounged in my silk jammies moping and stroking Frederick's abandoned home (I get sentimental when sick) hoping that my sweet- MY "Scrumptious Good Time" would come and visit her poor, courtly lover. Alas, I was left to cough and sniffle in silence. Diary, I honestly don't know how much of my moisture stained hanky is from post-nasal drip or tears. I do not know. I. do. not. know.
There was one upside, Father introduced me to a most interesting beverage: a "Hot Toddy." Diary, this little drink was a miracle! Father would not tell me what went in to this veritable witches brew of warm, fuzzy delight. I suspect father must get sick a lot, for there was something in the Toddy that reminded me of the way father smells when I sneak into his bed for warmth in the winter-time. What strange dreams were produced by this magical concoction!
My dream was so vivid! I awoke terrified, but laughed the dream off as silly and ridiculous. Still, the over-wrought and sickly manifestations of my brain caused me considerable distress. I dreamed that father had been murthered! And by Uncle Macbeth no less! On the plus side, when I discovered this, Lady MacD pressed her "Rolled Bureks" to me in a show of comfort. I cried because I was so emotionally conflicted! Then I sat around for a while, and then I was in England for some reason and was absolutely horrid to Macduff (though he probably deserved it for leaving lady MacD alone).
It was then that I received the worse news of all! My Dulcet Peach had been murthered as well! Diary, I was crushed beyond belief! But, oh Diary, the strangeness only continued to occur. On hearing of my dear one's death, Frederick's progeny erupted into a veritable mane of animalistic proportions! My voice dropped an entire octave! And I even engaged in physical warfare. Diary, you could not imagine my surprise when I wielded a knife in mortal combat...though I slashed no one I can remember, surely my manly conquests outnumbered the imaginatively prevalent hairs on my dream-induced chest. Then, lo and behold, father had returned in the guise of an old, swarthy Englishman...Old Siward (Young Siward's "father"). This was a most disturbing plot-twist and one from which I dare not dwell (except that nobody save me seemed to care much about Y.S. demise...which I maintain was because I wanted to do him in myself).
It all ended with me becoming king of Scotland. The end. Nothing more. There was nothing else that happened...nothing.
Anyway, I think we have all learned a valuable lesson about how wonderful and calamitous Hot Toddies are.
Yours in absolute, no-holdsbarred truth,
Y.P.M.
OH DIARY, I cannot lie to you! Something else did happen. In the dream Macduff tenderly placed his arm on mine to pronounce me king of Scotland...and I felt...a connection. I don't know what that means, but I am frightened. Nevertheless, I am determined to pursue the more feminine of the two Macduffs until Birnum Wood do come to Dunsinane.
The Follies Of Going Outdoors
Dearest Diary,
It has been too long since I last clutched your quivering pages 'tween forefinger and thumb. And it is too long still, for I hold you this evening not in my bare spindly hands, but with my phalanges ensconced in elbow-length sheaths made of rubber. That these decidedly tasteless gloves are accented with little plastic daisies is of no comfort. Nor does it bring me joy that these not-fingers are a pleasant and matte shade of purple.
But it must be so, dear Diary. Father claims. And it is all the fault of my adventurous spirit.
You see, the other day, I decided to take a walk in the south garden. Yes, out in the open air! I should have known so much better! But my mind was feverish with decisionings about Lady MacDuff and the merits of chin foliage and Young Siward's dastardliness and Lady MacDuff ...
Where was I? Ah, of course, out in the south garden, in the carefully spaced rows of dandelion and rutabaga that my dear sainted Mother tended right until the very end. Though she has been gone all these many years, the billowy little dandelions are still just dandy. So ... feeling spritely for a moment ... I did as I would when I was smaller. I bent at the waist to pluck the best dandelion I could find, to make a wish upon a right good blow.
Yet after a bit of tuggly struggle -- during which I failed to detach from the earth my dandy of choice -- I fell chin-ward into a nearby clump of rutabagas. One of those ornery little root-fruits nearly lodged in my nose, and would've done so, had I not sneezed immediately, righting myself in the process. Were it not for that moment of dandelion fluff induced nasal propulsion, I might've stayed there, chin-thrust unto the damp topsoil. Few recognize the benefits of being incredibly svelte and slight, after all.
But soon thereafter, dear Diary, did I find myself swooning. With no small amount of effort, I stumbled back toward the south-wing portico and my ever-faithful fainting couch. Sadly, this was not my daily fit that comes regularly at 2pm, but something altogether more profound.
In those few scant moments of gardentry, I managed to contract .... Le Grippe. Coughing, aching, sneezing, running of the nose, fever, shakes, poetry, clamminess. All do afflict me and cause me more grief than that of a Slav clad in scratchy burlap pants.
And worse still, dear Diary, is that Father threatened to take you from me. Muttering something about "blasted Scarlet Fever," I overheard him ordering cook to steal you away, to be tossed out with the evening's oven-leavings. He said you were probably the root of all my ills. When I found you missing that evening, I wailed like a sore-throated banshee. Which is to say, meekly.
But not to worry Diary, as through a series of hand gestures and hand-written signs, I was able to convince the visiting Lady Lennox to distract cook for just long enough to pluck you from the refuse. I called out to her quietly when I'd retrieved you -- as well as these protective mitts that were nearby -- but she didn't answer to accept my gratitude. Cook wasn't to be found either.
In other news, my recuperative pancakes looked particularly festive this morning, what with those smiley faces emblazoned on each with syrup. Almost lascivious, they were, so I could not meet their gaze. I did, however, eat them. Yum.
And so, Diary, I will hide you between my mattress and box-spring. Wish me well, as I do hope my humours will align such that I can dispense with these elastic barriers and hold you close once more.
Yours, albeit prophylactically,
Sniffly Prince Malcolm.
It has been too long since I last clutched your quivering pages 'tween forefinger and thumb. And it is too long still, for I hold you this evening not in my bare spindly hands, but with my phalanges ensconced in elbow-length sheaths made of rubber. That these decidedly tasteless gloves are accented with little plastic daisies is of no comfort. Nor does it bring me joy that these not-fingers are a pleasant and matte shade of purple.
But it must be so, dear Diary. Father claims. And it is all the fault of my adventurous spirit.
You see, the other day, I decided to take a walk in the south garden. Yes, out in the open air! I should have known so much better! But my mind was feverish with decisionings about Lady MacDuff and the merits of chin foliage and Young Siward's dastardliness and Lady MacDuff ...
Where was I? Ah, of course, out in the south garden, in the carefully spaced rows of dandelion and rutabaga that my dear sainted Mother tended right until the very end. Though she has been gone all these many years, the billowy little dandelions are still just dandy. So ... feeling spritely for a moment ... I did as I would when I was smaller. I bent at the waist to pluck the best dandelion I could find, to make a wish upon a right good blow.
Yet after a bit of tuggly struggle -- during which I failed to detach from the earth my dandy of choice -- I fell chin-ward into a nearby clump of rutabagas. One of those ornery little root-fruits nearly lodged in my nose, and would've done so, had I not sneezed immediately, righting myself in the process. Were it not for that moment of dandelion fluff induced nasal propulsion, I might've stayed there, chin-thrust unto the damp topsoil. Few recognize the benefits of being incredibly svelte and slight, after all.
But soon thereafter, dear Diary, did I find myself swooning. With no small amount of effort, I stumbled back toward the south-wing portico and my ever-faithful fainting couch. Sadly, this was not my daily fit that comes regularly at 2pm, but something altogether more profound.
In those few scant moments of gardentry, I managed to contract .... Le Grippe. Coughing, aching, sneezing, running of the nose, fever, shakes, poetry, clamminess. All do afflict me and cause me more grief than that of a Slav clad in scratchy burlap pants.
And worse still, dear Diary, is that Father threatened to take you from me. Muttering something about "blasted Scarlet Fever," I overheard him ordering cook to steal you away, to be tossed out with the evening's oven-leavings. He said you were probably the root of all my ills. When I found you missing that evening, I wailed like a sore-throated banshee. Which is to say, meekly.
But not to worry Diary, as through a series of hand gestures and hand-written signs, I was able to convince the visiting Lady Lennox to distract cook for just long enough to pluck you from the refuse. I called out to her quietly when I'd retrieved you -- as well as these protective mitts that were nearby -- but she didn't answer to accept my gratitude. Cook wasn't to be found either.
In other news, my recuperative pancakes looked particularly festive this morning, what with those smiley faces emblazoned on each with syrup. Almost lascivious, they were, so I could not meet their gaze. I did, however, eat them. Yum.
And so, Diary, I will hide you between my mattress and box-spring. Wish me well, as I do hope my humours will align such that I can dispense with these elastic barriers and hold you close once more.
Yours, albeit prophylactically,
Sniffly Prince Malcolm.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Someone ELSE has been reading my Diary...
...and drawing cartoons of it! Of course they didn't get it right, I know no "Jeremy"...it was Benson.
http://picturesforsadchildren.com/index.php?comicID=150
http://picturesforsadchildren.com/index.php?comicID=150
The Pursuit of Hirsutery
Dearest Diary,
I must again unfurl the flagon of my pigeony bosom into your waiting and cotton-bonded ears. You know, more than does any other, about the sufferings I have endured at the witty end of Young Siward's coarse-hewn wit and ne'er bending wrist. And likewise, know your leafy pages of the curious longings I emit nightly and secretly into these my dainty pillows of down -- down plucked from geesery both Icelandic and Hungarian -- in honor of the divine Lady MacD. At the crossroads where those two dire concerns converge, there lies a conundrum. And yes, this might be a bigger conundrum than those that fill the Conundrumming Coffer hidden neath my chifferobe. Bigger than "Why makes Father that painful look when I do squeal with delight?" or "Why does Cook have but four fingers on one hand and six on the other?"
You see, my Sweet Sheaf of Mutterings, I have in my possession, a peculiar device given me by my dear Father. When I say "Given," I should perhaps clarify. One morning, I decided to visit Father in his chambers. Cook was delayed in pancake preparation and I had urgent questions about the nature of bee copulation. Befuddled by hunger and curiosity, I forgot entirely Father's usual admonition about keeping a wide berth from the master suite. You can imagine his surprise when I strode in, bold as brass, interrupting him as he did scrape a razor across his manly stubble, laden as it was with lathery foam. "Yowch!", did he cry as the razor fumbled to the vanity with a clatter. I'd no idea Father was so learned and bilingual, as he immediately and loudly spoke such things as I'd ne'er heard. It was in that instant, that I forgot my apiary concerns. For while Father staunched his chin boo-boo with a monogrammed towel -- quite a lot of blood, does my Father have in him -- I found myself transfixed by an object on dear Mother's still undusted dressing table.
It gleamed, positively, this remarkable artifact. A handle of white. A ring of gold, though not a solid ring. More springlike, I suppose you'd say. And there, on its fuselage, written the name of the craftsman who brought it forth. And let me say now, Mister E. Pilady, you do beautiful work.
No sooner had I reached for it, had Father bequeathed the object lovingly and efficiently into my hands, right before he bequeathed me similarly into the chamber hallway. My tum was still empty, my concerns about the placement of stingers still concerned me, but none of that mattered near as much as this veritable Excalibur of personal hygiene held now in my spindly grip.
When I showed Cook my new inanimate charge, the reply was a shriek, followed by a turning away. The poor dear was too thrilled for words, I suppose. From what I've been able to gather, dear Diary, this device is meant to rid one of unsightly foliage, perhaps like the kind that doth sprout and congregate from time to time on my prominent chin.
So seeing as a tool is only worth having if it is also worth using, I have a decision to make. Do I take destiny by the plasticine handle and rid my facial regions of its manifestations? After all, such is the look maintained by my rival, Young Siward. 'Tis true he is a brigand, having not barely enough of the Gainesville strain to keep him walking erect among real men. But there is something unmistakably capital about his denuded chin. Makes him almost aerodynamic.
But what of Mister Macduff, dear Diary? What of him? For he doth ever groom the productive issue of his lower mandible, and did so even on that dreariest of days when he did tie the nuptual knot with the She of my heart's heart's heart's desire. After all, the magnificient Lady MacD found the likes of that beardage attractive enough to breathe her "I do." (Crush my heart, you do ...) So do I dare prune my own attempt at fuzzy rakishness?
If only you could speak, dear Diary mine, you could give me direction, tell me where to stand and what to do! But alas, you remain as quiet and as patient as ever. And so, I will nap the afternoon away, with you at my bedside and Dr. Pilady's Device tucked in with me for a contemplative nuzzle.
Perhaps when I wake, I will know my fate.
I must again unfurl the flagon of my pigeony bosom into your waiting and cotton-bonded ears. You know, more than does any other, about the sufferings I have endured at the witty end of Young Siward's coarse-hewn wit and ne'er bending wrist. And likewise, know your leafy pages of the curious longings I emit nightly and secretly into these my dainty pillows of down -- down plucked from geesery both Icelandic and Hungarian -- in honor of the divine Lady MacD. At the crossroads where those two dire concerns converge, there lies a conundrum. And yes, this might be a bigger conundrum than those that fill the Conundrumming Coffer hidden neath my chifferobe. Bigger than "Why makes Father that painful look when I do squeal with delight?" or "Why does Cook have but four fingers on one hand and six on the other?"
You see, my Sweet Sheaf of Mutterings, I have in my possession, a peculiar device given me by my dear Father. When I say "Given," I should perhaps clarify. One morning, I decided to visit Father in his chambers. Cook was delayed in pancake preparation and I had urgent questions about the nature of bee copulation. Befuddled by hunger and curiosity, I forgot entirely Father's usual admonition about keeping a wide berth from the master suite. You can imagine his surprise when I strode in, bold as brass, interrupting him as he did scrape a razor across his manly stubble, laden as it was with lathery foam. "Yowch!", did he cry as the razor fumbled to the vanity with a clatter. I'd no idea Father was so learned and bilingual, as he immediately and loudly spoke such things as I'd ne'er heard. It was in that instant, that I forgot my apiary concerns. For while Father staunched his chin boo-boo with a monogrammed towel -- quite a lot of blood, does my Father have in him -- I found myself transfixed by an object on dear Mother's still undusted dressing table.
It gleamed, positively, this remarkable artifact. A handle of white. A ring of gold, though not a solid ring. More springlike, I suppose you'd say. And there, on its fuselage, written the name of the craftsman who brought it forth. And let me say now, Mister E. Pilady, you do beautiful work.
No sooner had I reached for it, had Father bequeathed the object lovingly and efficiently into my hands, right before he bequeathed me similarly into the chamber hallway. My tum was still empty, my concerns about the placement of stingers still concerned me, but none of that mattered near as much as this veritable Excalibur of personal hygiene held now in my spindly grip.
When I showed Cook my new inanimate charge, the reply was a shriek, followed by a turning away. The poor dear was too thrilled for words, I suppose. From what I've been able to gather, dear Diary, this device is meant to rid one of unsightly foliage, perhaps like the kind that doth sprout and congregate from time to time on my prominent chin.
So seeing as a tool is only worth having if it is also worth using, I have a decision to make. Do I take destiny by the plasticine handle and rid my facial regions of its manifestations? After all, such is the look maintained by my rival, Young Siward. 'Tis true he is a brigand, having not barely enough of the Gainesville strain to keep him walking erect among real men. But there is something unmistakably capital about his denuded chin. Makes him almost aerodynamic.
But what of Mister Macduff, dear Diary? What of him? For he doth ever groom the productive issue of his lower mandible, and did so even on that dreariest of days when he did tie the nuptual knot with the She of my heart's heart's heart's desire. After all, the magnificient Lady MacD found the likes of that beardage attractive enough to breathe her "I do." (Crush my heart, you do ...) So do I dare prune my own attempt at fuzzy rakishness?
If only you could speak, dear Diary mine, you could give me direction, tell me where to stand and what to do! But alas, you remain as quiet and as patient as ever. And so, I will nap the afternoon away, with you at my bedside and Dr. Pilady's Device tucked in with me for a contemplative nuzzle.
Perhaps when I wake, I will know my fate.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Moving Day
Diary!
My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"
It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!
They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!
I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?
"rolled burek?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"
It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!
They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!
I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?
"rolled burek?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
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