Note! This writeup contains misspellings of the word 'Little', 'Baby', 'Bunny', 'Chicken', and 'Time'. Those are intentional. Any other misspellings are free game to beat me upside the head with. Thank you.

Alrighty! Log tiemz again! I figure I might pollute the E2 server space with my useless, self-indulgent meanderings maybe once a month. Yes, E2, I will be your period. I'm obligated by contract to make that joke at every viable opportunity.

I was actually going to post a log yesterday. A big long ranty one about my first ever creative writing class and what a disappointment it is, about how I thought we'd actually be studying the mechanics of story telling and character development and plot, but how instead the class is devoted solely to poetry. How (while I respect the fact that others enjoy writing/reading poetry, that it is a recognized and very subjective art, that there are probably a lot of good poets out there) I HATE poetry.

I was going to go on and on about how there's only a handful of poems on E2 I like, how there's only three real life poets I like, and how I hate the fact that my teacher absolutely adores free verse and makes all of us get into a circle, read our poems aloud, then go around one at a time 'critiquing' until everyone has spoken on the piece in question then we go onto the next person.

I was going to rant. I actually wrote a good chunk of it during class, meaning it was extra bitchy and full of RAGE. But I held off. Because nobody cares about my Ranty Mc Rant-Rant. Hell, reading back on it, I don’t really care. Wanna know why? Oh I’ll tell you why.



See, there's this little farm store out by Morgan Hill in the middle of a long patch of nothing and fields. That's where we used to get our bebeh cheekins when we still had a coop. They have everything there! Bebeh chickens, bebeh quails, turkeys, regular chickens. And (though I didn’t know it before) BUNNIES! BEBEH BUNNIES! All nestled together beneath their wittle heat lamp.

I wasn't sure whether or not I was allowed to touch them. There was a sign telling me not to touch the bebeh chickens, but it made no mention on the petting-status of bunnies. After making sure nobody was around to tell me not to, I stuck my hand into the pen. Most of the bunnies ignored me or scattered. But this one leetle bebeh orangey one came right up and started nuzzling my hand.

My brain promptly fizzled out and oozed out my ear.

We could not get the bebeh bunneh, nor any of the leetle cheekins. The former because we have no hutch or real know-how on rabbit care, the latter because we still have to finish rebuilding the coop.

Now my BFF is over, and she, my brother and I are watching a new rifftrax on the comp. in my room while I dick around on the lappy. We have chocolate. Life is good.

Also, dude(s)! I hit level four yesterday! Sweet. Kinda awkward, actually, ‘cause this whole time I was only writing to, you know, GET to level four. (I wanted to C stuff, you C.) I hadn’t really been counting on posting my junk after getting the level. Kinda awkward since like three people in a row just randomly upped and gave me a bunch of compliments yesterday. (*^.^*) Um, thanks.

So, yeah. Much love, dudes. Seriously, you guys are so nice. (Especially all you folks in the catbox! YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!)

Okay, before anyone messages me all outraged and stuff, No, I do NOT downvote poetry. Ever. I recognize my bias as my own personal thingumy and I know that lots of people pour their heart and souls into their poetry. I realize that it's one of the most subjective arts- right up there with mimery, flower arranging and interpretive dance. You poets keep on rockin', you're doing beautiful work. It ain't my thing, but different strokes for different folks.

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