December32009
Dear journal,
Feeling listless again today. It began at dawn, when I tried to make a smoothie out of beef bones, breaking my juicer. And then at Cheerios practice, disaster…
It was unmistakable. It was like spotting the first spark on the Hindenburg. A quiver! That quiver will lose us Nationals. And without a championship, I’ll lose my endorsements. And without those endorsements, I won’t be able to buy my hovercraft.
Glee Club. Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth breathers, it only comes back stronger like some sexually ambiguous horror movie villain. Here I am, about to turn 30, and I’ve sacrificed everything, only to be Shanghaied by the bi-curious machinations of a cabal of doughy misshapen teens.
Am I missing something, Journal? Is it me? Of course it’s not me. It’s Will Schuester. What is it about him, Journal? Is it the arrogant smirk? Is it the store-bought home perm? You know, Journal, I noticed something yesterday…
Of course, it’s coming clear to me now. If I can’t destroy the club, I’ll have to destroy the man!!!
