Font of Endless Dirty Dishes

Font of Endless Dirty Dishes

Early in my explorations of the ancestral abode I came across what I originally took to be a piece of ultra-modern sculpture but on closer examination I found it was in fact a large pile of dirty dishes. According to my researches, debris piles such as this are often associated with what was known as a “sink”. I have, in my free time, begun careful excavation to see if I can unearth just such a fixture.

Base Camp

Last night, as the temperature began to drop precipitously from 69ºF to what would surely be a low of 62ºF, I made camp in what I have decided to call the Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die (I am forced to use Fahrenheit measurements for this record because I have not as yet been able to find the legendary Manufacturer’s Script for Amending Said Thermostat in Accordance with the Gospel of St. Celsius).

From what I have been able to determine some months or even years ago a race of cardboard box creatures dwelt peacefully here, grazing happily on dust and lint. Tragically they were viciously set upon and slain by an unknown predator, and their contents – mostly RPGs, books, comics, and toy soldiers to judge by the evidence – wantonly strewn about the landscape.

Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die

I have found it convenient to use the burial mounds of the slain cardboardites to drape my clothes each evening. The remains of the box folk provide a surprisingly dry, if dusty environment and I believe it would be difficult for a predator to come upon me without giving away its presence as it stumbled and crunched its way through the cairns of literary ephemera.

Marooned in Willowdale

Why Not Adopt Me Instead

My first full day alone in the wilds of Willowdale: will I survive? Will I maintain my sanity? Will I be able to recruit enough strength to continue writing this harrowing account of the ordeal? Will searchers stumble across this journal many years in the future? Only time will tell.

My sister, and sole housemate, has gone questing in Central Asia; gone in search of motherhood. She has flown to the ends of the Earth to seek an adoptive child. A truly heroic – and oh, so expensive – quest.

I warned her of the perils, cautioned her about the pitfalls, and ever so tactfully suggested that if she was dead set on adoption mightn’t there be a nineteen-year-old buxom, blonde au pair to be found. Was my sister grateful? No, instead she threatened me with death … again.