If you tell anyone this I'll smash you with a mallet.

Sick secret number one:

I used to drop bugs into milk caps of hydrogen peroxide, watch their bodies bubble and hiss and then build them coffins out of cardboard I cut from Castner Knott boxes and Scotch tape. Sometimes (if I was feeling kind) I'd line the box with a square of material from one of my dresses. (I wore home-made clothes.)Then I buried them in the backyard under this evil looking tree, don't know what kind, all twisted and cocked to the side...Supposedly it grew that way because it was right on the wall of an old schoolhouse, long torn down and a hundred years with it. The best kinds of ghosts come with a spot that used to be a schoolhouse. The ghosts of children, the ghosts of bugs, the ghosts of outdated farming equipment haunting the barns, diseased with rust, hearing the yawning of metal over the lake and pretending not to.

I buried two Daddy Long Legs alive. I hated those things. I picked them up by the legs, dropped them in a dark box and covered it in wrapping paper. Pink, yellow and white with balloons. I buried it six inches down. I hope they fought to the death.

Problems with my graveyard:

1. The rain would drown the cardboard headstones away and muddle the dates. So as the project continued, there began to be some of those white washed out headstones...unidentified bodies crowned with blank expensive marble and moss. I liked that a little, though, because it gave the cemetary some age. Made it seem like a family plot instead of the dumping ground for a flypaper massacre.

2. Sometimes the neighbor's dog (Alice who is long dead) would get so excited by my progress that she would shit right in the middle...but really, I kind of thought it added a nice touch, like a naked giant with thick pale legs leapfrogging over the stones, relieving himself without thought as he hit the ground crouching.

3. There were no problems with the graveyard. It was perfect.

Sick secret number two:

Yawn. Goosh. I really don't feel like writing right now.

That's the secret, sick secret number two. I really don't feel like writing. Isn't that queery? Isn't that sideshow? Please don't get all discerning...I'm drinking tea. I'm weary. I must go out and find sex.