I have smoked way too many cigarettes today. I actually feel sick to my stomach. That hasn't happened since I snuck a smoke behind the portables in 7th grade. Ah, youth.

I'm still trying not to think too much, but it's hard. People keep saying 'war' and there's a picture of a guy getting 'God Bless America' tattooed on his forehead in this morning's paper.

There's also more coverage of the local man, age 20, who raped a girl, age 9 months. The cops, the media, the parents are all talking about how it's a good thing she's too young to remember anything. Just cuz you can't remember doesn't mean it won't fuck you up. This hurts me more than anything I've seen these past few weeks.

I'm scared.

I think I want to break my wrist again. Every once in awhile, I get this urge to break a bone. No reason, really...maybe it's a test to see if I'm still human, but I can never remember what's going through my head when I do it. I've actually devised a story to tell my mom and have given myself a date. But I can't. No. I've been so good (well, better than usual) these past few months. I can control this, I swear.

Maybe I should talk about boys. Boys are simple and require little military planning to conquer. Yeah. He'll be getting another letter detailing my latest observations about HIM and ME and US in two days. I think I told him he's going to make-out w/me. Now. Oh what the fuck am I saying? He's not going to call and I'm too damn proud to call him and ask for an explanation cuz really, he can't know how much he means to me. Fuck. Maybe I shouldn't talk about boys.

Since my duck is a special breed, his chubby body is not equipped for flying. Don't get me wrong...his wingspan is quite impressive, but not impressive enough to soar. Yes, my duck cannot fly. He often forgets this fact and attempts to lift off, yet ends up falling on his beak. Since he's never fully aware of not being able to fly, I don't think it bothers him too much. Yet, I sometimes 'help' him so he can swoop and dive just like a normal duck. I grab him around his belly, lift him above my head, and run around the yard while he flaps and makes happy quacking noises. I know he loves when I do that. I love when I do that.

A couple nights ago, Howie wasn't ready to come in/got confused and couldn't find his way in (more than likely the latter), so I had to carry him to his night time pen like a baby. This allowed him to give me muddy duck kisses all over my neck and chin. Thankfully, he was being gentle and didn't leave any marks. I thought for a moment that if that happened, I could just say a boy gave me a hickey. Then I realized it would be more believable if I told the truth...my duck gave me a hickey. Funny in a sad, sad way.

Howie seems to have calmed his hormones a bit since I last wrote about him. He got pretty bad about two weeks ago...I still have a mark on my hand from where he pinched me. But as quickly as his amorous behavior began, it ended. So now my duck is normal again.

Well, maybe not *normal* but you know what I mean.

Everyone should have a pet duck.

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