I suppose someday you'll be reading this. If the internet still exists by then, not replaced by something greater and much more dangerous.
I hope I make a good mother. I hope I brush your hair each night, and tuck you in tight. You'll someday get a puppy for Christmas if you haven't already, with a big red bow. Sorry to spoil the surprise.
Today, I've got the Blues. I know I'll get out of it.
But for now. They're here.
Is Art just a symptom of an Artist's disease? I am sick.
I am about to witness my second decade, my dear child. I'm planning to spend the Countdown on the beach, by the lake, with a bottle of cranberry Champanade under a blanket, with my Romeo. Bliss. How about you?