Dear journal,
Feeling listless again today. It began at dawn, when I tried to make a smoothie out of beef bones, breaking my juicer. And then at cheerios practice. Disaster.
It was unmistakeable. It was like spotting the first spark on the Hindenburg. A quiver. That quiver will lose us Nationals. And without a championship, I'll lose my endorsements. And without those endorsements, I won't be able to buy my hovercraft.
GLEE CLUB!
Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth-breathers it only comes back stronger like some sexually ambiguous horror movie villain. Here I am, about to turn thirty, and I've sacrificed EVERYTHING, only to be Shanghaied by the bicurious machinations of a kaball of doughy misshapen teens. Am I missing something, Journal? Is it ME? Of course it's not me. It's WILL SHUSTER! What is it about him, Journal? Is it the arrogant smirk? Is it the store-bought home perm?
You know, Journal, I noticed something yesterday. Of course! It's coming clear to me now. If I can't destroy the club, I will have to destroy THE MAN!
(Unfortunately, because of copyrights and all that hooplah, I have to cite my sources. Watch Glee to find this!)
<3 Lolly
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