8.9.04

Can't talk; eating.

Dear Diary,

When the only people complimenting your hair are old ladies, it's time for a change. Right? For a while I was chanelling Angus Young, and I was OK with that. But now it's just a disaster. Oh my God I think it's turning gray.

So the tap shoes arrived. And the ballet slippers. I was practicing my first position and my jetees and the BHE said, "That's... very nice, baby. Very, uh, graceful." Diary, I think he was being sarcastic. Humph! From now on I'm practicing in the privacy of my own front porch.

Also I think my mother-in-law (The Other Mother) and I are playing a little game of cat and mouse. More like mouse and mouse, actually. She's waiting for me to call her. But little does she know I'm waiting for her to call me. Nobody wins this game, Diary. Except guilt. Guilt wins.


Love, Fluffy