by benjeep » Mon Mar 20, 2017 7:14 am
Entering for the Cream Kit!
Username: benjeep
Name: Credence
Personality in up to 10 words: I'm a poet, and I sure as hell know it.
Logs:
Journal I: T'was an absolutely glorious morn!! Ah, inspiration has hit me and resonates within me! Oh, I feel the glory deep inside my soul! No.. Deeper!! Deep in my... stomach?... Perhaps this "inspiration" is my body telling me I should procure something to eat. And rather quickly at that.
Journal II: It seems that this cursed town's dragon has, once again, reduced the bakery to a pile of ash and rubble. Strudels are a little on the crispy side today.
Journal III: Launcelot, the wandering minstrel (who can't seem to wander far enough from me) came to court me again after breakfast. The poor bloke can't seem to take a hint. I do admit he has a nice voice, however his use of verse is downright horrendous. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's cabbage?"
A summer's cabbage??!
Journal IV: Sound the alarms!! Gather the troops!! The fortress guarding my sanity is under attack!!!
Below lies the dreaded question that hath made me mad:
Is there a word that rhymes with orange?
Journal V: After a particularly madness inducing afternoon, I now lounge in my arm chair sipping chamomile tea. (I may or may not have ripped the tapestries off the walls and thrown pottery into the streets when I came to the conclusion that there is no rhyme for orange after writing an extensive poem and realizing it could never be finished). What's this? A knocking at the door?
Journal VI: T'was the royal guards knocking on my door. Apparently when I threw the pots out my window, they were on patrol, and the exploding pottery startled their horses, causing one of them to buck. I sternly told them that I would never do such a thing, and they were not my pots, but those of the lodger above; a temperamental old lady with a hatred for the king. They've left now...
What? I panicked.
Journal VII: The royal guards are back, now that they know it really was me, and they are demanding that I compensate them in gold for causing a disturbance. I begged them not to take anything. I explained that I am only a poor poet trying to pay his taxes and keep his tragically sickly son, Alexander, alive. It took some convincing, but once I mentioned my son, they gave me a reaffirming pat on the shoulder, an empathetic smile, and bid me farewell...
Alexander is a cat.
Journal VIII: Despite the setting of the holy sun, Launcelot has returned to "serenade" me, for the second time today. Unfortunately, I no longer have any pots to throw. The cat will have to do.
Journal IX: The cat did not deter the overly enthusiastic man. I... regret to say this, but tonight I gave into his absurdity. I invited him in for dinner. I must say that I was surprised at what a witty and pleasant presence Launcelot was in my home. He was very well mannered for a homeless musician. This didn't stop me from adding poppyseed to his potatoes (as a sleep aid of course). I am pleased to say that tomorrow morning I will not be awoken by his revoltingly happy tunes. Good night!
Journal X: A few moments ago, I woke up screaming in a cold sweat. Night terrors aren't uncommon for me, so once I'm done recording this, I hope I'l be able to return to my slumber.
I still shudder to think that nothing rhymes with orange.
Last edited by
benjeep on Wed Mar 29, 2017 11:26 am, edited 7 times in total.
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