Alright, so I'm boring.

First of all, when I took a shower this morning, I found that I was out of soap.  I decided to use Kevin's soap, which smells very much like aftershave.  I finished up my shower by using some of Landon's body-wash, in hopes of removing my bold new fragrance.  Now, I smell like a very manly baby.  Disgusting.

Last night, I made the apple butter that I had previously mentioned, and it turned out very well BUT.....I then realized how extremely boring I am.  So, for your reading pleasure (although nobody is actually reading this yet, because I have not gone public with the URL...who would want to read a blog with an archive of only a few entries?  Certainly not me.)  I have fished up some old short stories, which I will post in here perhaps two at a time...maybe just one though, because I'm in sort of a rotten mood.  (Smelling like a masculine infant can do that to a girl.)

This does not have a title.  It was written May 1st of 2007.


I had always despised Mr. Switch, and was not at all disturbed to find him being beaten over the head with a blunt object.
My brother Leopold, however; who often entertained Mr. Switch as a dinner guest, was outraged!  He called the law enforcement at once.
An uncharacteristically boring man, Mr. Switch was often found to be brooding over the weather.  My sister Irene, who had the proper idea of distrusting all men in bowler hats, frequently spoke of poisoning him.  Thus begins the story of my life.

At exactly 4:26 in the morning, I was awakened by the sounds of an escaping cow.  Mr. Switch - who had taken up residence in the root cellar - had disguised himself as a moose, and was running willy-nilly through the orchard!

Our beloved bovine, Gretchen the III, was badly annoyed by the chaos, and had decided to take her leave.  She had made it all the way to the middle of our unstable wooden bridge, when it promptly collapsed under her weight!  Gretchen went mooing down the river at great speeds (for a cow) and looked quite frightened indeed.

Leopold and I found ourselves outside in our unmentionables, lassoing the great river beast, and trying our best to reel her back to dry land.

Mr. Switch, still fancying himself a moose, frolicked past us exclaiming "Great day for a parade!"

Later that day, I took Irene shopping to purchase cyanide.

Here is the first part of another one, but not the middle part or the last part, because it becomes unexpectedly inappropriate.  I'd rather not offend anyone, or be the cause of mass vomiting.  

I am a massive orange feline, patrolling the streets at dusk!  A mouse squeaks in the distance.  I am on it's trail like a bold panther on a baby gazelle!
My whiskers twitch - instinct tells me that the tiny rodent is hiding behind a massive wad of gum.  The fiend!  I pounce!  I rip off his head!  I pull out it's innards in strings, and gnash upon it's tail with my sharpened teeth!

But actually, I'm not really a cat at all.  I am a man.  A human man.  My name is Gunsun T. Weathers, and I'm sitting behind a dumpster at night, whiskers taped to my face, chewing on a mouse.

My life came crashing down the day I met a jovial man named Polly.  We hit it off instantly, and he invited me back to his uptown flat.  We drank tea and listened to Motown hits.  


There.  More to come if I ever start experimenting with drugs, or don't sleep for a period of 5-6 days.  It might happen.  Be on the lookout!