I cannot believe that she [you know who I’m talking about] hasn’t even been here for a full twenty-four hours. I mean, it sure seems like an eternity.
A blood-bathed one, but an eternity all the same.
The only person I have left to turn to, in my hour of need, is you, DeDe. You and a few dozens of friends, but mainly you. Because I can’t tell them some of the stuff that I’ve written here. Like how I’m ever so slightly intimidated by an eight year old. Even though I’m convinced she’s Satan’s bride descended on earth to test our tolerance to the cutest of smiles, being cowed by someone a full three years younger than you is something to be… not proud of, at the very least.
And I can’t tell them about my Mom being so defenceless at the sight of extreme adorability. She may be kind of weird [especially about the no-BBQ-chips thing] but she’s still my MOTHER, the person I love the most in the whole entire universe [as dorky as that sounds]. I can’t tell them about the ONE flaw my Mom has.
Besides, even though I tell Patty practically everything [except the whole diary thing. And the Brandy stuff. Oh, and how Mom can’t resist dimples], there’s some point at which you draw the line.
Now I DEFINITELY can’t take this to school. If ANYONE figured I was rambling about Geometry in this thing [on top of the “Pee-Her-Pants Girl” pics], I can kiss my Oxford scholarship goodbye…
[Who wants to offer admission to half-mental, nerds with bladder-issues?? Not any institute I want to someday be a part of…]