I choked on the mashed potatoes. Let me repeat that: I choked on bloody flarpin' fudgebucketing mashed frickin' potatoes.

That's not supposed to be possible, I think.

And even if it isn't, why am I writing about it here?

I should save this story for parties.

But anyway.

Hm. Choppy entry, this one.

So I'm still here. I don't really want to be. I'm not really too keen on the idea of, you know, living, and such, but I shan't be attempting a repeat performance. Maybe I'm a tad smarter, trite as that seems.

Ivy, shut it. No more angst. Talk about happy things, happy, happy, happy things... talk about things you like to do, just like South Pacific. Ack. Maybe not. Maybe you should talk about those potatoes some more.

I really don't know why I write in this thing at all. Gah.

So. Potatoes. I can't believe I choked on mashed potatoes. I really don't have anything to say, do it?

Do it. Do I, that is. I meant I, not it, and now I've managed to choke on mashed potatoes and misspell a one-letter word in less than two hours. Jesus roller-skating Christ, to quote Grumio.

This weekend went by way too fast.

But I finished Monte Cristo, and this is good.

Adieu.