I may be dying.

Some woman coughed right on me at West Edmonton Mall yesterday. No hand cover. No turning to the side. She walked right up to me, looked me dead in the eyes, and coughed right on me.

I was going to write a poem about it, but I’m feeling far too ill. If this mystery disease kills me, tell Robyn I’ll miss him the least.


A poem about numbers

It’s pointy and fun. Depending on how you write it.

It’s like me and you. Because there’s two of us.

Sometimes rhymes with tree. Unless you’re French.

Let’s go to the store. I’m out of milk.

It makes me feel so alive. Like that drink. Snapple.

Nothing rhymes with six. Don’t argue.

It’s got less numbers than eleven. Which has more numbers than one.

Put some noodles on a plate. Then throw some sauce on there. It’s delicious.

Nine is doing just fine. It has no problems with seven, despite what you may have been previously told.

The poem is at it’s end. It rhymes, shut up.


Something’s fishy…

So we put up the new video yesterday, but every time we watch it, Robyn turns it off before the video ends. It’s unusual. And he somehow put a parental block on my computer, so now it won’t let me watch any videos. Or feed my Neopets.

Also, he won’t let me look at the mail. He always lets me look at the mail. That’s how I make my mail collages. It’s impeding my creativity, and I don’t like it one bit. I wrote a haiku about it.

What’s on your mind, dude?
Like, you’re acting kind of strange
Wind whispers your name