gytha x-tie.

i'm writing this at 30,000 feet.  if my wireless interferes with the plane and we crash, it's just as well.  we're still closest to Boston.  they'll take us to the hospital there and i can pretend i was never on a plane at all and mikha will come and hold my hand and dot will eat cereal and watch cartoons with me and i can finally stop crying.  let the plane crash.  god, buddha, krishna, commercialism, let the plane crash.

the little girl in the seat beside me reached over and took my hand when the plane took off.  she handed me a tissue and told me not to be scared.

i'm scared.  i'm so scared.  i don't know how to live without him anymore.  i can't remember.  i can't remember life without mikhail and without dot and without all of the people i hardly know, who i met at a school i'd decided to hate.

i'm so scared they'll forget me.

i'm leaving my ring on, mikha.

and i'm leaving this public because i don't care who knows.

there once was a guy named bakunin
who went to The Strip with his woo-man.
they had fake IDs
and could do what they pleased
so dear bitches, meet gytha bakunin.






on a... um... COMPLETELY unrelated note... i won't be around thursday or friday.  or saturday.  or sunday.  i feel a cold coming on.  cough.  except... no visitors.  i'm sure i'll be too sick to... appear like i'm in my bedroom.  i think mikhail has the same cold.

cough.

happy new year bitches.














(why yes... YES IT IS.)

i would like to begin a petition for stronger beds and weaker punishments at eupheme. who's with me? united we fall, united we stand.

ha! i'm so clever. and i have brushburn on my lower back.

an impromptu poem. ahem.

there once was a man named bakunin.
who...

yeah, i lost it.

anyway, the point is... why aren't you over here yet? hello! what kind of bitch are you, if you aren't at my beck an' call? i'll fire your ass. just your ass, mind you. what? who's talking?

To: Dorothy Rothschild [drothschild@euphememail.net]
From: Gytha Xtie [achristie@euphememail.net]
Subject: ...

so how did everything go? are you still alive? is bill? are you pregnant? can we name the baby mr. t? i have questions that need to be answered!

and a STORY. i have a story that needs to be told. oh, dot, i'm a whore. not in the literal pay-me-to-fuck-you kind of whore, but a metaphysical whore. or something. anyway, get your ass over here or call me. apparently i have a phone.

To: Dorothy Rothschild [drothschild@euphememail.net]
From: Gytha Xtie [achristie@euphememail.net]
Subject: omg, wtf, ftw, nato, scuba, radar, and other acronyms.

naughty dottie, queen of the nile:

i. have. a date.

with a russian.

on friday.

ohmygod.

that is all.

(private entry)

i swore to myself... swore... that i would never write down song lyrics. but then i also swore to myself that i would never get a stupid crush on some immature highschool boy.

well. he's not... totally immature.

i had my playlist on shuffle and a song popped up that someone (i'm thinking one of my cousins) had slipped on there without my knowledge. i was going to change it, but i was feeling all fat and lazy with happy and didn't get to it before the chorus. oh yes. i'm posting lyrics.


Oh why'd you have to be so cute
It's impossible to ignore you
Must you make me laugh so much
It's bad enough we get along so well
Say goodnight and go

except for the part where he says goodnight and goes. i don't like that part so much.






i'm in so much trouble.

excuse me as i blow the virtual dust off of this bitch and scratch a few notes down.

i have returned, eupheme!  i know that everyone missed me.  everyone i met, anyway, who was... oh... no one.  okay, there were a couple of people.  (charlotte?  still alive out there?)  and for those of you who were wondering where i was, here's the dl:  i was in juvie.

"juvie?" you ask.  "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like that?"

like i said.  no one here really knows me.  

i went home to DC to visit Clarissa, who was sick.  while i was there, i decided to pass the time by holding a peaceful protest at a local KFC.  if you don't know the controversy behind KFC, do yourself a favor and look it up.  and i'm not talking about the mistreatment of their chickens, either.  

i'm talking about the fact that they don't use chickens, but genetically engineered chicken-flavored beasts.  try looking it up on google, and you will likely get a whole bunch of information to the contrary.  these, gentle reader, are lies.  be informed.  be informed.

during this peaceful protest, one or more fires may have been started unintentionally or intentionally.  someone may have been charged with arson and put into a "home for at-risk youth."

that's right, bitches.  i'm a delinquent.  how you like them apples?

sincerely,
gytha, inmate number 145.

xox

dear mandatory diary of lies and crapfulness,

so. effing. bored. god, i wish something would happen. i overheard someone in the lounge talking about taking something to the cleaners and got all excited because i thought that maybe there was something, you know, awry afoot. they were talking about pants.

maybe i should actually talk to people some time. i'm sure there's something interesting going on here.

nah.

gytha

dear forced open confession available to the prying eyes of all who may care to see,

the unthinkable has happened. i think i may have made a friend. that's right. well... kind of a friend. it's not like i was all "hey, can i call you my friend?" and she was all "heck yes you can!" but, yeah. i think i have a friend. her name's charlotte. i met her at lunch. she was talking to some guy who was laying on a table (bacon. bakin. baccoon... something. gosh. must remember these things) and i went over to investigate. we have classes, together, too, so now i'll have someone to talk to. she even wants to write notes in code.

(and when we get the code worked out, it will be committed to memory and never set down on these electronic sheets, so you just stop drooling, "cleaning lady." yeah, that's right. i mean you.)

so eupheme doesn't blow. i mean, there's obviously some weird stuff going on around here (underage drinking in the commons area much? bacuninin... buggar. what was his name?), but what school doesn't have punkrock acloholics? keeping the option open for misery, of course. far be it for me to be too positive. but hey! i have a friend! maybe! take that, doom-saying parental bitches!

must. take. nap. i was up all night reading the three musketeers backwards. i'm on the 30th chapter, which is pretty good, since i'm doing it all backwards. i still don't see what harriet was saying about it being a prediction of the downfall of western society. and people thought i had issues. gosh, that girl was weird. i wonder how she's doing. i heard they sent her to somewhere in california. huh. i suppose i could ask clarissa. but probably not.

dr. lindquist thinks i should keep a journal. i think he’s full of... um... it. can i swear here? is anyone going to be reading this? of course they are. they probably track the purchases of journals just like they track the purchases of the catcher in the rye and trace it back to serial killers. then the “cleaning ladies” check for your journals and read all of your little plots and schemes and…

whatever. i’m so not keeping this in my underwear drawer. that’s where they’d expect it to be.

anyway, it doesn’t really matter what dr. lindquist says. it’s not like he’s going to be checking up on me. it’s not like he or his flying monkeys can find me here in BFE-wherever-I-am.

They’ve finally gotten rid of me. by “They,” i mean fredrick and clarissa, my happy nuclear-family parents. They say that the environment in virginia wasn’t healthy for me. uh-huh. too close to washington dc. too close to the FBI, CIA, FDA, NCAA, AA, etc. headquarters. that’s what i say.

the place they’ve moved me to is called eupheme. it's a school, in theory. They are staying in virginia, and i’m staying here. absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, i guess. maybe They’re planning on having another child. maybe They’re planning on starting an entirely different family and i’m not invited.

jerks.

seems nice enough, anyway. (the school, i mean, not the parental plot of abandonment.) haven’t started classes yet. i wonder if they have metal detectors.