A couple of weeks ago I posted a scan of an old story I wrote for school when I was a kid of somewhere between six and ten (depending on who you believe). That turned out to be pretty popular, so I requested more scans from my suppliers of embarrassing material from my younger days (i.e., my parents). Behold: Rabbit’s Journal.
When I used to go to my grandparents’ house, I would spend a lot of time in the sewing room downstairs, where they had a typewriter. (A typewriter, for those who don’t know, is sort of like a computer, except the keyboard is connected directly to the printer and there’s no screen or hard drive.) This typewriter had the magical ability to type in black or red ink, which I put to good use.
Who is Rabbit, you ask? He was one of my stuffed animals, of course. (Anyone who’s been reading Dennis’s Diary of Destruction will not be surprised at this early example of anthropomorphism, I’m sure.) And where is Rabbit now, you ask? Why, he’s on the shelf behind me, LOOKING RIGHT AT YOU!
But don’t worry. Rabbit doesn’t write horrible messages in blood anymore.