As my despondent owner, Heida LeTemps flipped another one of brand new, shivering, crisp white pages, smoothened down by Heida’s blindingly elephantine collection of S.Holmes.
I was bonny with Heida, she was tender, not large and morbid like Lady LeFromage (name amusement, futile.), that forlorn old bat! I’d much rather be encrusted in hard, cold, rough iron. Honestly.
I looked around. I was wide open, so I could see. Heida was on my 67th page. Delightful.
Happiness was frequently bestowed upon me. Happiness being Heida’s cat.
One, oh so horrendous day, everything would be different…
My pages were glistening with small, joyful words. Though I had never read myself, I just heard those words being spoken aloud by Heida. All getting in my forlorn, disenchanted head. My cover smelt like burnt lasagne. Repugnant. A greasy take out from Italian The Way, they were copyrighted, and had to remove ON between Italian and The.
Heida took me outside. Bleugh. My refined pages freezing in the dumb dumb dumb winter. The weather was foul. I knew it, I knew I had a reeking smell of tuna and lasagne and my pages were lasagne-stained. No one would want me. It was bad enough with Lady LeFromage using me for decoration.
I was bored. I wasn’t opened, thus what was happening, I was oblivious to it. I decided to read myself. Tried to. No wonder no one wanted to read me, there was only one word in me: rage.
The ~storytellin~ Buzz Team