Dear Gary

Mutant potatos and such things...

Warning: Slash and some potato bashing

uhhm, cough cough, how should I start this?

Dear diary? No, that makes me feel like a seven year old girl writing in her Lisa Frank journal. Which I am NOT. A girl, or seven, or Lisa Frank fan. Ok, how

about...Gary? Don't like the name? I couldn't care less, you're an inanimate object after all.

So, Gary...

I had an interesting day today. yup, yup. What was so interesting about it you ask? Well, lots.

First, I had a meeting with a hippie judge. I guess it was my sentencing, not really a meeting. I can't even get my head around it My Sentencing. I went in there, wrinkled khakis and clip on tie (not my best look) awaiting the eclectic chair or lethal injection or whatever's in a humane. Instead, I got stuck with you, Gary. I am to keep a journal (she promised nobody would read it) for the next six months and write down everything I feel. Cuz apparently I've got anger management issues. I couldn't believe she said that about sweet little ol' me. I' m the picture of innocence. Blond curly hair, big blue eyes, dimples, the whole deal. Just because I took, a chain saw to my step-dad's Mercedes, does not mean I've got anger management issues. I have a perfectly rational explanation for doing that. Unfortunately, I'm the only one who thinks its reasonable. But you're on my side right Gary? You have to be, or I'll feed you to the shredder. Anyway here's the story...

"James," he tells me (that's me, James), "stop it with the potatoes."

Ok, so I might need to explain something at this point. This is all the potato's fault. See, my mom bought these potatoes, but there wasn't any room to put them so they ended up on the kitchen floor in a corner. This in itself did not bother me. I figure she'll wash them before feeding them to her precious only child. No, what bothered me was when day's later, the potatoes started to grow. Yes, grow. It was disgusting. These stubby little brown limbs started sticking out of the potatoes. I mean, I know potatoes are roots and what not, but I couldn't stand to see my future dinner mutate on the kitchen floor. It got to the point where I refused to enter the kitchen.

"Just get rid of the potatoes Mark" I screamed at my step-dad.

He of course, denied me my mind any peace, muttering about what a freak I'd turned into. A week later, I know the potatoes are still there, mutating trying to make little baby potatoes. But, no matter how much I tried to convince my parent to kill the potatoes, they refused. Something about me needing to grow up.

On day seven I refused to enter the house. My mom tried to convince me to come inside, a tired smile on her face. But I couldn't. Then Mark said fine, If I wanted to live on the lawn that was fine, but the potatoes were staying. What? That was my house, not the mutant potato's and definitely not Mark's. That's when I got mad. I'd been frustrated before, but now I was just plain angry. And an angry James is not something you want. Surprisingly, I was not mad at the potatoes, I was mad at Mark. I was sure it had been him who had convinced my sweet loving mother not to get rid of the potatoes.

So, I too a chainsaw to his beloved Mercedes. And you know what? It felt good.

See, wasn't I right? Totally reasonable explanation. Ahh, it felt good to get that off my chest. Maybe hippy judge lady is onto something. But wait, she also said I have to go to group counseling. Not cool, hippy judge lady. I have to spend an our three days a week working out my problem with a bunch of crazy freaks. I'm scared. No, seriously, what if one of them tries to bite me or something. Oh well, you'll defend me right Gary? And at least I didn't get the death sentence. Yuppie!

Oh, there's something shiny in the corner of the room. Must go investigate. I'll let you know about that crazy group thing tomorrow...



A/N - Ok, I have no excuse for what you have just read. I don't see why anybody would want to read it, but it's fun to write so maybe I'll continue it. What do you guys think?