Dear Diary,

Woke up again in this primordial cage, the bars just high enough where I can’t catapult myself over.  This crib of my slumber confining not only my dreams, but also my physical self; I can’t decipher if it is saving me from myself, or the world from me.  Sigh… but hey check this out… my stuffed kitty.  I love this thing.  His nose is so cute.

My mother figure keeps insisting that I change my diaper.  Doesn’t she understand that change is constant? That this barbaric ritual is meaningless in a world where my poops will end up in a landfill defiling this planet, further perpetuating the earth’s own fecal demise. The ineffectuality is however less significant than the discomfort of these cold temperature wipies against my tushie. Hey she is blowing on my tummy. That is so funny.  Silly mommy.

I want to go out side and play.  But I don’t want to wear my socks.  Only my party shoes! Why do I have to wear socks just because of so-called winter?  What kind of rational is the changing of the seasons?  More like the oppression of my soul.  I do want to be cold.  No body believes me.  It is my Buddhist practice of heating my core temperature despite the weather, but Mamma keeps making me wear a hat.  Is it too complicated for her to comprehend that my spiritual self is only accessed through the extremism of my commitment?  At least it is a pumpkin hat. And I get to wear my monkey vest.  I love monkeys; they make that “ooo ooo ooo ahh ahh ahh” sound and scratch their armpits.  Delightful.

There is no justice in the world.  I have to eat my pasta and vegetables before I can have any bunny shaped cookies.  What kind of regime is this woman running?  A totalitarian dictatorship of all that is delicious?  Bitch.

I do want to put salt and pepper in my milk!!!

I don’t want to do bath.  It not time for night night.  No! Oh shit you are going to put bubbles in my bath? Okay that sounds fun.

Brushing my teeth seems so futile.  Aren’t they all going to fall out anyway?  Fine, I guess I will do it if I can eat some of the strawberry toothpaste.

Another day has come and gone.  I may not have been able to do all that I wanted.  I had to draw only on the paper and not the table, which seems very small minded and inartistic if you ask me.  I wasn’t allowed to eat my Popsicle in the living room because of something about my gross sticky hands on the couch… I don’t know I wasn’t really listening.  But at least my Mamma chased me around the kitchen table until I smacked my head against the refrigerator because of my slippery socks.  I knew socks were bad news.