Everyone I know seems to be on the same cycle. Women, that is. All of us started menstruating over the weekend. Very damned disturbing... tied in with the moon? Electronically communicated hormones? I don't know.

I wrote a letter to Alex, something to amuse him when he gets back from his double-shift at work today. I managed to write this mostly because I was drunk and already writing bad poetry, and because I could pretend it wasn't ME writing it. It was the sweet little mouse he cares for so much.

One of the most amazing men in existance... and he thinks I'm male. *sigh* I am an idiot.

--- the letter ---

A garden is an easy enough place for a young mouse to fall asleep, and so JaxAlt does, the cheerful buzz and chirp of wildlife, the rush and gurgle of water, even the almost-inaudible whisper of a summer's breeze through the grass proving to form a most irresistable lullabye. He hadn't meant to sleep, certainly... his inkpot is still open, one quillpen cradled in his paw, a few sheets of loose paper scattered about. The most recent one shows signs of considerable reworking, words crossed out, written over, and edited. The final form is still readable, the wind having not yet swept away this scrap of parchment from its sleeping owner. It's the title that catches DashAlt's eye more than the heartfelt words, at least at first... since the title is simply �Dash� scrawled in large, graceful letters that look well-practiced. The text itself is simple, four short verses, each one seeming to have taken considerable thought on the part of the young poet.

Twin pools, or so the poets say,
matching orbs of blue and grey,
sapphire hues to chase away
the boredom of a humdrum day.

Soft fur, the paleness only shows
that deep within, a coldness grows;
what should be silk is winter snows,
he touched me and my spirit froze.

Dark gaze, no fires light those eyes,
instead their shadows hypnotize,
and spellbound, brush away the lies
once found in me, his mortal prize.

His growl's a query none could miss,
the inquisition's merely this:
one question, formed within a kiss.
My answer?
Sweet surrender's bliss.

--- end of letter ---

*shrugs* It amused the hell out of me when I was writing it. And now? One more for the vaults. Gods... the room stinks of Tequila. I think I'm getting a hangover... wheee!

So what do I do? Go play Furcadia, of course, and wait for the advil to kick in.