Thursday, February 28, 2008

Dearest Diary,

I did so love our day at the park with Mr. Scruffles. It was an arborial delight. I dare say it was an omage to days at the park everywhere, firmament to fundament. Mr. Scruffles did have a time, I can tell you. In fact, (dramatic pause) if I don't miss My guess, and I most assuredly do not, I rather get the impression Mr. Scruffles has come over all weak in the knees for you, and being that his knees are stuffed with fluff of a less than adamantine nature, one must surmise that his knees have come over very weak indeed.

How can he be held accountable, I ask you? How can anyone that sees you not immediately fathom the course of his thought? Your's, My dearest Diary, are the highlights, and hyperion graphic designs and layouts of an artistic genius. Just look at all your subtleties. Fluffy bunny children with enormous eyes, looking frightened and vulnerable, huddling together in the darkened underbrush...oh, dear, they're gone. Perhaps that bobcat I added to the page went off somewhere to play with them.

Still, it's no matter. Mr. Scruffles, rest and keep him, flew off in a twirling arc towards a neatly stacked pyramid of propane tanks, along with Alice's diary, that rag of a flammable floral patterned piece of scrap, muttering something in high-pitched French about assisting with the barbeque. I imagine I shall have to keep you in trust for that dear sweet little Derdre while she gets well done with the ensuing festivities. Alas, such is the way of the generous soul.

Say, here's a larf: Let's go to the library, and see if we can't stir up a companion or two for you...

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