The Unabridged Journals of Leea Blanche Dubois

tonight was nice. i barely moved a muscle. crystal played me some of her music, i played guitar, we called some old loves, and sent them to hell, then talked about bus stops, as i fell onto the floor with a broken string. i love it here, i never want to stop. now i am writing to you as i sit in the window, my new bed is cut into the window, can you believe?! it was my dream at four to live in a window and i would like to tell you about the days i've had but who cares about that, i have forgotten by now and besides, my white fingers are cut as i type. oh, i can tell you about the boys. or how yesterday i bought a new black shirt with tiny buttons up the front. i have been visiting a new park, it looks like a baby garden with virgin flowers in every grass patch and a bench where i write the secrets. last week before my birthday i was telling the letter about the pollen we sucked and how i hated my life, i was looking for adonis but he was a fertilizer and i wept, and a man walked up to me like a briefcase sort, he had the nerve to read every word into my bee stung face like i was free, and so i stormed off and tucked the letter under the gazebo beside a sleeping stranger. if you go to st. james park in torontonio please find it. it is folded into four, there is a drawing on the front with puffy eyes it says "why don't you love me" oh well. he doesn't love me, and how i grow in the baby garden. but i forgot my favourite marker pen triplus fineliner thing and the briefcase man called me "miss", he said "here is your pen miss, i know how it works well for you, GOOD LUCK!" i swear he said this, quite polite, i smiled, and now he is a character in my story. i wanted to kiss him for being so kind, what have i done to deserve this, but he was ugly and wore a crooked hat that would look better on a bird.

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