Still Alive.

Dear Diary,


I'm very full of spicy V-8. If I could bathe in the stuff, I honestly would. Well, maybe not. I fart a lot, and that might spoil the taste. I don't normally drink my bath water.


The move to Washington draws nigh, and my tummy grows ever tickly. Other than that, there's nothing much to report. Despite being full of the aforementioned V-8, I'm looking forward to the steaks I'll be making tomorrow. I enjoyed prepping them. It's soothing, in a way. It's also kind of strange. Ever since I've been quite small, any sort of cook-prep that requires the handling of raw beef comes with the temptation to pop said raw meat into my mouth and chew on it feverishly.

Once in a blue moon I'll eat some raw hamburger, and yeah, I did chew on a piece of beefy fat that I cut off of one of the steaks, but I didn't swallow it. I don't really know why. I mean, the meat is in my mouth, so it's not like the germs that cover it aren't already in like flint. It's weird.

My silly dog got the rest of the fat pieces, and she also managed to get some of it wrapped around her snout, nearly in her eye. I was laughing, which clearly embarrassed her. I went to take a picture with my camera phone, but only came away with a brindle blur.



Fuck my life.