(diaryland) May 7, 2001 - 7:15 p.m.

I have a really small toy rabbit on my desk at work whose official name is �Tiny Bunny�. A �Tiny Bunny� is the sort of thing that only a female would have on her desk because if a male had it on his desk, everyone would question his masculinity. If I did not have a �Tiny Bunny� on my desk, or if it was suddenly removed, everyone might question my femininity. I also have a tissue box with kitsch pictures of fairies on it bought in a delusional state for extra gender safety.

Back to the �Tiny Bunny�. The �Tiny Bunny� came in a tin that is very much like a coffin. When �Tiny Bunny� gets tired, he goes in there.

I also have a metal trinket in the shape of the Golden Gate Bridge, but that was already there when I came, presumably added by someone who has been there. Oh, come to think of it, my boss has been there. Well, mystery solved.

I wrote a poem that�s probably more like a short story that insists on beginning a new line every sentence.

he eats the same thing for years and years.
he gets full eight times out of ten.
he gets sick of it eight times out of ten.
four times out of five.

he sees what happens when others eat.
eight times out of ten he enjoys it.
four times out of five.
one lady ate a sandwich and salami flopped out onto her chin.
he laughed twice.
the second time was two hours after, when he remembered it.

his uncle lived on cakes and orange juice.
he lived a long time.
he died on the kitchen floor.
he was getting orange juice.
eight times out of ten, he would remember his uncle.

four times out of five.
looking at his watch who is thinking about mealtime.
looking out the window at the celery patch.
coasting out into the street at 10:04 to go get remission.