run over there and put in some pork

Show me that I'm everywhere and get me home for tea it's all too much for me to take

Is this a -- what day is this?

















Everywhere it's like what you make for us to take it's all too much.

betsy is home. where she started this fucking thing.

I feel summer creeping in

... and I'm tired of this town aga-a-a-aaain.






















(I'm throwing rocks tonight; I guess Betsy went to the recordsmith got herself some other records besides the damn Beatles.)

God knows I want to break free

that's all i got, really.

more of the same. yada, yada, yada; life sucks... (i mean, and, it really really does...)

gotta find a thing. cunt. planet. breukelen kinda happiness.
















yarn.

There isn't much light in this dungeon

And Leon is getting larger...













I finished my desserts lolita! I may add some accessories and small details still. The blouse does not fit right on the dress form so it looks funny.

Bullshit life of faith and betrayal...

rise in anger... and just stay there?

...

Betsy's knittling and wares are becoming less and less necessary despite the changeover in these foundering fathers' circumstances' and shit. Time is slowing down, and while she's whittling her fingers to the bone, there is less and less of the work to be done no matter how much of the flag remains to be stitched.

It seems "the times, they are-a... what they are," as Betsy heard some folksie singer a-singin' as he was a-strumming on his zither out in the cornfields to keep the slaves on the plantation from stabbing each other in the eye with their pitchforks so as to put them out of their miseries. Cutsie little niggers, at least they've got some spirit to get them through the day.

But the times, they really do kinda suck omg. At least Betsy has her blog to keep a-writin' in, no matter how much she wishes to leave this hovel, go out into the cornfields and play a fucking zither.

And Mr. Cranky-pants agrees:













Heaven is to Betsy what Betsy is to heaven, and Betsy wants stray this plantation and walk in front of a speeding locomotive.













she shouldn't-a ate the fucking pudding.
.
.
.

"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars..."

...and when my pants are on fire, it boils like Mars.









(the lad fancies himself a poet)
...
.
.
.













how can u have any pudding?