It is I who is the dumpy one now dear.

Not you.

I don't care. Come closer Little Bird.

Then, I do like to feel his flesh under the cashmere jumpers. I am under the jacket now, and I do not think that he minds so much. He maybe even likes it. I feel like I've been patient and crouched outside a bird's nest, and helped it to extend its wings... that's a God complex if ever there was one.

I showed someone my magdalen laundries thing today, and they loved it but couldn't understand it (because there was no context whatsoever). But they liked it. I could maybe be a writer, it made me feel better. Constructive criticism, they gave me spades of it... and I left feeling pretty good. I felt good about what I'd done. I couldn't believe something I'd just dashed off read that well.

There's a boy in my creative writing class that irritates the hell out of me. Stupid jowly pube face heavy breather. He inhales and exhales in this orgiastic fashion when he writes, as if he can barely contain his own genius beneath his pudding frame, and his cheeks are like pale globbets of blancmange on his pasty white face, which, till lately, was tricked out in brown pube like chin growth. Pubes on a blancmange, quivering with sexual tension. He's short and chubby. Stubby. I hate him with a passion, though we've never actually exchanged words. I never hope to either. Ugh. Each time he speaks, or writes, or breathes, I feel this irrational surge of hatred; why is this? I don't even know his name.