"'Truth is strange," you know, "stranger than fiction' - besides being more to the point" - Edgar Allan Poe

January 16, 2006


She wished, hoped, thought, and eventually believed that she was a bird. She would dress up in clothes that felt like wings on her back, and chirped a little twitter anytime the cute boy gave her a smile. In the night, she'd hide under the covers and wish the rest of the world to disappear away so that sleep would be hers unbecoming. And the sunrise would bring new life to her rested little hollow bones, and with another twitter she'd jump right out and into the new day. Few things had permanence, and fewer still held her interest for longer than mere moments. Life was just HAPPY and ECLECTIC, and all that she wondered about was whether she'd run out of things so wonderous.

Yeah, she was dying to be roadkill. Wish fulfilled.