There once was a boy from Baraboo.

I knew a little boy named Bennie once who turned himself into a murderer. Bennie said, "I can't kill her, I can't kill her," Jennifer said to Bennie, "Bennie, please don't kill me; please don't kill me. God help me." He then walked up behind her and shot her in the back of the head. This was, of course after raping her for hours.

Is it strange that I have thoughts so private, I don't mean strange or sad just private, that I am unwilling to write them? I wont write them even in my hand written personal diary. I just leave them to flutter about the edges of my mind.

Night before last I had a strange dream in which I was showing a bruise on my ankle to Malcom (of Malcome in the Middle). The bruise was shaped just like a rose in bloom and kept changing colors, though it always remained bruise colored. It started a deep purple blue, then dark blue, then green. In my dream a handsom youngman came by and held my hand. It was nice.