Life is so much different when you do adult things. I find that I do things differently. I watch where I walk, I don't go over the top and pounce on people, I even pay attention to my bank account in ways I never thought. Being responsible and thoughtful is a strange thing for me. I've thrown away all my cans of spraypaint, probably to the appreciation of those that I vandalized (some on a regular basis.) I've donated the clothing I gathered for the trip to Sea-at-tel since I won't be needing them anymore. And I've decided to work in my fire-dancing on a more diligent schedule. Adults are supposed to have plans, right? Well, as an adult-in-training, I'm going to do what I was born to do, and that is dance. My job is to entertain, and I think that firedancing will be a new exciting way to amuse others. I may even make a few coins from my performances when I'm certain I won't singe myself anymore than I have already. Fire dancing is an art, one t...
I had another friend that I trapped in my cottage. An older gypsy woman by the name of Sway. She liked to sway around, so I guess that's how she got her name. And don't ask me about my obsession in trapping people in my house. It's not that I trap them, I just kind of lock the door so they can't get out. Anyways, me and Sway got along real great. She'd be there hanging out in my garden practicing little jigs, and here I'd come and jump in on the dancing. I'm hoping that someday I can use the little hip tricks she taught me to seduce some boys. I must admit that she did distract me from my fire-dancing practice. She had no interest in such things, she said. She felt that it would singe her hairdo, and some gypsies won't ever risk that. But then the ... i want to say inevidable... happened. She was slaughtered. In front of my eyes. The murderer callous and irrational. Of course, he didn't care. Apparently I'm not allowed to have friends, no matter ...
I wasn't afraid to kill myself. Not in the least. It would have been easy to just slip into the bathtub at the cottage, and not come back up for air. Or just bleed into my freshly growing flowers that are starting to grow back in the garden. Ironic no? Taking life on fresh life. It was easy to envision. Some wandering soldier (since there's so many that like to trifle through my things) would come into my home, find my corpse, and raise the alarm. Oh no, another gypsy dead. Not like there aren't handfuls of them around Romania. And they'd take my body to the waste and dump it with all the other unidentified bodies. Some sentimental fool would come to my house and out of respect, burn my house to the ground. I would have liked that. Hey, I'm still thinking of just burning down my house for sport. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. The letter wasn't a cry for help, it was a declaration of what I was to do. I was ready. Completely. But m...
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