002. 06 August, 2022. Thursday.
HEXED PRIVATE.
I can hardly believe I'm writing in this, but Terry's gone off to meet with some villagers and Circe knows when he'll come back -- only I don't believe there's a merciful deity out there who would know these things would happen, and then refrain from interfering. It's perfectly obvious what will happen: he'll stumble in at some ridiculous hour of the morning, go on and on about fossilised llama skulls, and then pass out on the kitchen table in the middle of writing it all up. Rinse, repeat, and by the end of term it'll be a miracle if I can get into the kitchen without tripping over more artifacts, i.e., dead things and bits of rubble. I can never get him to eat enough when he gets excited about these stupid projects
Self-imposed boredom via self-imposed isolation leading to -- self-indulgent journal entries. It could be worse (it could always be worse), and as there's no alcohol here, the danger of embarrassing myself a la Finch-Fletchley seems remarkably low, whatever I write. In which case:
...
At least his father isn't ashamed to tell his story, however inglorious it seems in the retelling, no matter how painful it is to relive it. No, I shouldn't like for there to be a book -- an interview -- anything public, but seventeen years in the privacy of one's home; you think there would be something -- anything. I bet Finch-Fletchley never had to find out that Justin was in the D.A. from a fucking newspaper article. What could possibly have happened that was worse than being thrown in prison? And what good is it to ask the same question over and over when there aren't any answers
It's pretty sick to feel jealousy over this. It is not, after all, about me, and after all I wouldn't want Finch-Fletchley's family, but that's not the point -- I'm petty enough to feel it anyway.
/PRIVATE.
Winifred, after much thought, I've decided to defend my honour (such as it is) & honesty and have written my sister to ask if she could arranged for a durian to be owled to you. This is your official warning, so don't say that I didn't.
I can hardly believe I'm writing in this, but Terry's gone off to meet with some villagers and Circe knows when he'll come back -- only I don't believe there's a merciful deity out there who would know these things would happen, and then refrain from interfering. It's perfectly obvious what will happen: he'll stumble in at some ridiculous hour of the morning, go on and on about fossilised llama skulls, and then pass out on the kitchen table in the middle of writing it all up. Rinse, repeat, and by the end of term it'll be a miracle if I can get into the kitchen without tripping over more artifacts, i.e., dead things and bits of rubble. I can never get him to eat enough when he gets excited about these stupid projects
Self-imposed boredom via self-imposed isolation leading to -- self-indulgent journal entries. It could be worse (it could always be worse), and as there's no alcohol here, the danger of embarrassing myself a la Finch-Fletchley seems remarkably low, whatever I write. In which case:
...
At least his father isn't ashamed to tell his story, however inglorious it seems in the retelling, no matter how painful it is to relive it. No, I shouldn't like for there to be a book -- an interview -- anything public, but seventeen years in the privacy of one's home; you think there would be something -- anything. I bet Finch-Fletchley never had to find out that Justin was in the D.A. from a fucking newspaper article. What could possibly have happened that was worse than being thrown in prison? And what good is it to ask the same question over and over when there aren't any answers
It's pretty sick to feel jealousy over this. It is not, after all, about me, and after all I wouldn't want Finch-Fletchley's family, but that's not the point -- I'm petty enough to feel it anyway.
/PRIVATE.
Winifred, after much thought, I've decided to defend my honour (such as it is) & honesty and have written my sister to ask if she could arranged for a durian to be owled to you. This is your official warning, so don't say that I didn't.