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?

If I needed someone Ah Ah Ah Ah

Good god, this city is a lonely bitch.

Spent my thursday morning chained up to a tree outside for like hours and hours in the 17-degree, snowy weather knittling and whitting my toils away (seldom works) until I literally began to lose senstation in some of them damn bones and fingers.

damn chain on the pennyfarthing Quincy Adams kept circling me with kept acting up, spitting dirt and mud and slush in mah face as I worked. In the wind... in the wind...

But I made it through the wilderness, that cold and rancorous day, somehow I made it through (oh yeah)... and been back in my miserable little hovel ever since.

oh, the places you'll go.


Current Mood: all fucked to hell

Everything's a fucking travesty

Left out in the cold by old maid-servant Fraulein Schnettle (the other one is on vacation), your poor old Betsy tripped, skidded and slipped like eight times on the dusty, icy ground carrying home her big kettle of wonton soup the short distance back from the nearest Chinese Food Plantation just up the road.

Being drug by the chain around her from the horse carriage up in front (hands free, to carry the soup), she fell to the ground burning her curds away, and ripping the joints anew of the fingers she injured weaks ago... The fingers on her knitting hand are sore now again (rather sore), and the knitting, oh how it suffers

tweaking the pain (oh, tweaking away), when she sprained those tender digits but weeks ago after Thomas Jefferson had his way with Ms. Betsy in the night (when no black wimmens were calling). She can do knitting no more tonite, this night. :'(




And so I leave you with this,
transcription from a book
laying around, in the olden tongue
of a dusty old tome:





Alle zum Schafbrot, cum Schafbrot
in meine Lieben und was noch,
Wohin?! (nee, 'Whither?!')
Der Herdboden atmet
und mein Hand ist müde.
(Immer müde.)
...

I hate this fucking city. I hate this fucking apartment. I want to put a bullet in my head.

"Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly?"

It seems that yours truly Betsy Roosh has been lifted up from the underground cellar into a whole new above-ground living hell of a box of a domicile. There still isn't much light in this dungeon, and Mittens scarcely has any room to run around the place is so damned cramnped (yes, "cramnped").

Bootsy Betsy is still a-knitting your precious national emblem here, toiling away with ever-so much trouble... Slaving as his master George W. looms over her every minute detail in prepartion of your damned falg (yes, "falg").

Just thought I'd take this free minute -- I'd been tied up to a Catherine Wheel over the holidays as my punishment to Benjamin Franklin -- now that I finally have my 18th-century wi-fi hooked up again (up in here, up in here), to update you all dear readers on my whatsabouts.

The days tick by, the days tick by. And I'm running out of yarn.

It's a woman's life in the modern world... and a happy fucking New Year.

















God bless the Germans.