16: You write something.

Gasp! And here I thought I was The Writer. Yet there you are, hunched over a pad of paper, writing out some kind of list. I try to peer over your shoulder, but you are ready for this, and pull closer to the page, shielding the contents from my eyes. Rude!

I take it you are miffed due to my recent absence. I try to reassure you by patting you on the shoulder. You are even more miffed to find that the slimy sensation of my shoulder-patting is due to the fish in my hand.

“Why are you holding a fish?!” you snap.

“Why would I not be?” I respond, puzzled. I play catch with my fish while I wait for you to finish writing.

You take your time, which leaves me impatient. What, oh what could it be? I contemplate the contents of your list. Is it a list of swear words? Those are fun. Don’t forget dumbballs and lardpants. Get creative.

Is it a list of organs in the human body? I know all of those. Don’t forget Red Blob and Slimy Tubes. Those are big ones.

Is it a list of fruit you might enjoy? You really do need to cast your net a little wider here, your pickiness has concerned me more than once. Watermelon is not the be-all end-all of fruit, I promise.

Is it a list of the fish in the sea? Don’t forget this one!


That was me slapping you with my fish. Ho, ho ho, look at your expression! Oh. You’re not pleased. You slam a door in my face that has conveniently appeared betwixt you and me. I suppose I’ll just sneak back in tomorrow to read your list and your latest diary entry. I never did get a chance to see what you thought of lemons.

13: Your superstition.

It is Friday and you receive this, my thirteenth post. You howl at me.


I thought you appreciated my timeliness. Why must you be so superstitious?

“It’s bad luck to ask me that!” you moan, tossing salt over your shoulder and kicking a black cat out of your way. “You could curse us all!” you add, murmuring a protective spell under your breath and kicking a dog. That was unnecessary, but you felt bad about the cat and somehow came to the conclusion that this would balance it out. The dog doesn’t appear to agree.

“Bad things happen when Fridays and Thirteens are crossed!” you continue, as the wounded animals sprint out of your path. I can see your point. Bad things can indeed happen. Like terrible movies of that name. I apologize, if only to placate you.

“Just don’t do it again,” you say calmly, ducking around a ladder, drawing a religious symbol, knocking on wood, avoiding the mirror, throwing a closed umbrella out the window, and stomping on a trail of ants.

You are… terribly destructive.