I met a girl who sang the blues

Ah, Dolly.  Whose real first name is Polly – I’m so imaginative at disguising names, aren’t I?  Anyway, I wrote about her once.  No, twice.  First time was because I had daydreamed about a violent death for her.  Second time was about seeing her have an epileptic seizure at work, which made me feel guilty about the first.  

And now that guilt gets to pile on a little higher.  Yesterday, Polly’s family found her dead in her apartment.  They haven’t said yet how she died, but I’m going to guess she had a particularly bad seizure and hit her head or didn’t start breathing again normally, or something like that. 

She was only like 30.  Shit, I don’t even know if she was 30 yet, she might have been younger.  She wore very very brightly coloured business clothes that I think she made herself, and she was loud.  Terrible to work with in an office but an extremely good person to be around when you want to have fun or wear orange pant suits.  When she had her seizure at work she was joking about it almost from the moment she regained consciousness. She annoyed James even more than me, but when she started a new job up the road from us he was going to go have lunch with her and was really looking forward to it because like I said, outside of work she was a laugh riot.  She cancelled, and that was only a few weeks ago, so now he’s pretty upset that he hadn’t re-scheduled with her yet.  

I think that between her and the dog I couldn’t save from peak hour traffic, I need to stop wishing death & destruction upon people in this diary, as it seems to make it come true – kind of like a death note or something.   Well… no, I can still do that, but just only to people that I wouldn’t mind seeing dead in real life.  Coming up next, my thoughts on George Lucas.

I’m sorry, Polly.  Rest in peace.