Oct the Eighth
Hey Journal. What a fuckin’ day I had today, god damn. My tires got slashed, I hashed things out with Harrington Bogspekti (I didn’t even know there were things I needed to hash out, but I sure did hash ‘em out), and I told my girlfriend I loved her. And she said it back. And that makes me so, so very happy.
I’m going to get to work on The Face of Fear now, but before I do, I wanted to share something crazy with you. There’s this lady who works at the library with Tori who gave her all sorts of trouble right from the start. We thought she was just a bitchy old Betty through and through, but as it turns out, old girl was a wolf stuck in a trap. Stuck in four traps, even–… no, five! She had gnawed all her paws off in hopes that she would escape, but then she realized the fifth trap was around her neck, Journal, and there’s no escaping that.
Rhea Cooswood – the cosmic fucking hilarity of that name is not lost on me, and it’s actually fucking hilarious, too – used to be a very happy woman. She was married to a dude and she had a daughter, a very beautiful and healthy and allegedly very bright daughter – a daughter exactly like Tori, in other words, as in she looked exactly like her – and on the night of her prom, she was killed in a really bad car accident. She took a limo with her boyfriend and the driver was drunk – a Logger’s Pond special, I’m sure – and so too was the driver of the car that hit her – a Logger’s Pond special in more ways than one, it seems – and, out of grief and drunkenness, her husband blew his brains out. Right in front in her, too, left the poor woman to clean up the mess of his splattered brain and spilled booze the day after her daughter died. Like, Jesus fucking Christ, do you see what I mean? Anything can happen in these backwoods little towns where folks grow old without ever growing up, and for that reason and that reason only, anything does happen, and usually, it’s fucking tragedy.
Poor Rhea Cooswood. That poor, poor woman. I’m going to be so nice to her every time I see her at the library from now on. Like, I was never mean to her, but I’m going to make an effort to be really nice to her from now on, even if she gets crotchety with me. Especially when she gets crotchety with me, even. Fuck it. Of course a wolf’s going to snap when it’s stuck in a bear trap, it’s stuck in a fuckin’ bear trap for god’s sake.
So yeah, just wanted to get that down so it doesn’t stay on my mind and end up in the novel. Only three chapters left now, Journal (four counting the Envoi). I’ve never been so close before, which comes off as really stupid now that I put it down, but still. I’m so close! I’m twenty and about to finish my first novel, and like, with the past two months and everything that happened… I feel like I’m on a spiritual journey, Journal, and it’s slowly coming to an end. I’m so excited to get there, but at the same time I’m in no rush; one foot in front of the other, one word typed at a time. Albey the Mad Poet, get ready to face your fears.
Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Long days and pleasant nights~
This has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~