Wicked Beast

Dear Diary,

The tortures from The Beast continue. Thank God she was too busy with preparations for the evenings activities to find me some sort of clothing to wear to the theatre. It was frightening to hear her speak of plans for my togs.

The Beast was so inappropriate for the theatre. She wore what she referred to as "civilian witch wear". Who would wear such a thing to a theatre?

Disgraceful.

She and her friends were out of control and so very loud. All of them were the epitome of everything that is wrong with American women. And she had her children with her! What horrible examples. At least they didn't speak during the show.

So many people have lost all respect for the arts. I contribute such poor etiquette to the invention of VCR and all sorts of playback equipment. One can pause, fast forward or rewind whenever one pleases. One cannot do that with a live performance.

Did I have a good evening? My Dear Diary, it can be summed up in one picture rather than a few thousand words:

Sequined Beast

Dear Diary,

This morning The Beast shuffled 'round the place in her hideous house shoes. Honestly, what kind of person has sequins on their house shoes? I fear this arrangement is going to be my demise.

She was also muttering to herself something about a "Wicked" show and my needing proper attire for the theatre this evening. What the bloody hell is that Beastly woman thinking?

The Awakening

Dear Diary,

I have to vent. It's been a total of four days and I'm becoming distraught. Today The Beast took me out again, flaunting me as though I'm some sort of toy. She actually used me to frighten a child half to death!

Can you imagine?!? Me? Frightening a child?

I'm not sure if that horrible woman even realised what she was doing. She has been carrying me around in her handbag like I'm some sort of trophy; making note of the odd looks and comments from all sorts of ladies and gentlemen.

In private she cackles about the whole unsavory event. YES! Cackles! And you know I'm not prone to exaggeration.

Today this darling young chap, sitting at a table by himself whilst his mum fetched lunch asked The Beast if she had a person in her handbag. She smiled at the boy, claims she was trying to calm him she does. Even had the gall to call her own smile "sweet", then says to the boy,

"Oh no, honey. It's just an arm."

Then she pulls me out of her handbag like a fat sausage! That poor boy, who couldn't have been a day over a tender five years, bursts into tears.

I don't blame him one bit, not one bit. Surely I was a terrible sight, being in my current condition.

When I was first disconnected from the body just this past Saturday I thought it was going to be a good thing; an awakening of sorts, like that delightful Chopin novel I read every summer. However, I now have an independant conscience yet no way to express it.

I am literally trapped. At least when I was part of the whole doll little ones would make us move and give a voice to our thoughts.

Now, I'm just a disembodied arm.