Blog, sweet Blog, I return to you. And what a strange feeling. I'm sorry for being gone so long. Computer. He doesn't know me anymore. He hums slightly when I stir him, but the bond is gone. He doesn't recognize my cold fingers hitting his keys methodically. And I don't mind, when we were closer I shut reality out. But it was a nice break. Now we just have a casual relationship. I think it's because I ripped his vocal chords out. Eventually I'll plug them back in. But when he doesn't speak, I'm forced to listen to the voices from the other room. And the thoughts in my head. Nice.
Things are strange. I've been acting not like myself. Nicer. A regular do-gooder. Good-doer! I just got it! I met a Rastafarian at the Del Mar Faire and he told me everything I need to know. It seems. Though in retrospect, he really didn't tell me anything. Except that I am the sister of Her Majesty. Which should make me royalty, but actually just makes me a peasant.
I need a mouthful of fake teeth, and then I can have everything I want.
What do I want?
I know what I want. I just need to do it. I just need to make it happen.
I think I might have started something. Lit a match. Under my ass.
Sizzle, sizzle.
BLANK LIKE ET!
I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. Mmmm.
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