Hey, it's a holiday. I don't have to write today.

2-21-95

Richard's slacking. I haven't gotten a weekly letter from him since Friday before last.

Hence, my lack of the poetic mood.

2-22-95

Finally! Got my letter.

Anyway, I went to a family get-together tonight at my grandmother's house. My uncle lives with her, and he's a major slacker, living off her social security and his girlfriend's welfare when he's capable of working to support himself; he deserves a really, really bad poem--tasteless and unoriginal:


Black sheep, black sheep,
Aren't you any good?
Who, me? 'Course not.
Gotta have my food.

Work day? Get up?
Okay, that I'll do.
Next day? Same thing?
What, and make it two?!

No way, Madre.
That stuff ain't for me.
I would rather
Leech from poor old mommy.

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