My hair is cropped and short. I sit outside in the warm spring breeze, and can hear the birds singing their merry, uplifting tunes. My sister is playing a game with the neighbor girl; something that has to do with roller skates, rock throwing, and the old left over carcass of a spinning fire work sitting on our fence, let alone to face the elements since two New Years Eve’s ago.
I can feel the breeze rustling through the still bare branches of the young, growing tree sitting in the middle of our blooming lawn. The green is coming back, slowly, but surely, after a mediocre winter that consisted of warmer than normal temperatures and very few snowfalls.
An engine rumbles down the street like the hungry boogie monster that lives under my bed. He gives me those odd Tim Burton style dreams that I have been having lately. I’ve decided to name him Ralph. He’s quite nice, actually. He often tells me of all the adventures he took whilst travelling with a merry band of men that he picked up in New Zealand. There he developed a love for gypsy jazz which, subsequently, rubbed off on me. I also feed him scraps of meat. He then delivers me into worlds of splendor, for last night, I married Jack Skellington.
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