If i grew up on a farm, and was retarded, this country might impress me...

but instead i'm stuck here in this shithole, sewing up a dream of George W.'s America...

And if Mittens wasn't sleeping on my soapbox (one of the few ammentieis i'm allowed here in this dungeon), I'd would climb right up on top of it to say a thing or two. About the fleeting wills and wants of a little old hand-maid with some knitting skillz.











i feel whittled to the fucking knuckles. (aint no thimble gonna cure me).

.

and more on Mittens later; all depends on how much a-stichin' i gets done this evening if i'm gonna scribe yous a little something-something before i crawl up on my straw bed and--