(diaryland) May 27, 2006 - 11:38 p.m.

Sometimes I think I'm really from the nineteenth century. Not because I'm over one hundred and six years old.

It's just that sometimes, when I'm all alone in the house on a Saturday night, and I'm playing on the piano from a big Treasury of Music book with large lithographed illustrations, I wonder where the thick red velvet curtains are, why there isn't a roaring fire, and I wonder what my eleven brothers and sisters would be like, crowding around the piano singing songs about rosebuds and shit.

Then, theoretically, we would all eat sticky date pudding made specially by Cook.

Hey, does anybody else like spaghetti westerns?