�I�ve got an angry snatch, girl, you know what I mean.� Hopefully it�ll be the last angry snatch of the year and I won�t have to worry about it again until it starts getting warm out again. I�m just really pissed off about it because it�s not like I�ve been under stress or anything lately. I suppose this is just my vagina saying farewell to another summer. So, I�m out of the saddle until at least tomorrow night, but there are worse things and I�m not letting it get me down too much.

I found myself thinking about words in the car on my way home from dropping Luke at work. I�m reading the book Luke got me last week and all I can think is that I could have written a book at 15, but I was too busy being social and involved with my own life to bother thinking about my memoirs. I was writing gems then, I was. I can remember bringing people to tears with my essays, wanting to hold them and tell them that there�s really no need to cry for me, that I am better than any of those who have hurt me. Not only am I better than they are, but they helped to make me better, kicking themselves in the shins at the same time that they were kicking me. They helped to make me beautiful, their words reinforcing that I am what I know I am. I am not just some fat girl; I have curves, gorgeous color changing eyes, and delicate hands.

There are times when I want my words to scathe, to scald, and to burn. I want what comes from my mouth to cook flesh to the point of falling from the bone. Instead, I end up pouring sugar on cold cereal despite my best (or worst) intentions, bathing wounds left by others.

Now, to sum things up, my cat is not always the brightest of creatures: