Volume One
Monday
I went to the bar this morning to throw chairs out the window. For some reason, they kicked me out. Some people just don't understand that pressures of being a big rock star. Then I went home to write some more lyrics that I will never show to Noel. That bastard. Just wait until Mark David Chapman gets him. When I thought of Noel, I decided to call him up and scream at him. He hung up on me, so I went up to my room to stare at a poster of me for the rest of the day. Ahh...I so love perfection.
Tuesday
I went out with a couple of my imaginary friends to play football today. I pretended to be able to play and got into a fight with some stupid Blur fan on the sidelines. It got more attention than the actual game, let me tell you! Afterwards, a kid ran up to me with the look of a fan. "Oh wow! I heard you were dead! I love all your songs, man. You're the best group ever." "That's great, man. What's your favorite song?" "Ticket to Ride, man. It kicks ass." I flicked him off and walked away. Not that it was precisely an insult to be mistaken for John Lennon, but my looks are so superior to his. Anyway, I saw cameras just waiting to photograph me giving them the V. I couldn't let them down.
Wednesday
I ran into Noel today at Maine Road stadium. He was signing an autograph. The guy who he was signing it for looked at us both together, and asked if we were twins. We both started to put him straight at once--how it was bad enough to be that jerk's brother, and isn't it obvious that I'm so much better looking than he is that there is absolutely no comparison? Yeah, he said he was better looking, but deep in his heart I'm sure he knows that people only get the albums for my face and voice. Then we noticed that the guy was long gone. I kept screaming until I noticed Noel was gone as well. (That bastard. Just wait until Mark David Chapman gets him.) In fact, people had begun pouring out of the stands. I followed them out, pretending not to have missed the game and keeping an aloof, sexy expression on my face. Some girl raved to me about how it was the greatest game she ever saw, and didn't I think so? I nodded and realized I had forgotten where I parked my car. I ended up hitchhiking and getting a ride from Tony McCarroll, who claimed that he should be getting a lot more royalties from the first album. He never shut up so I finally decided it would be better to just walk home.
Thursday
I was at the bar again. Some chick told me that Morning Glory was the best album in the world, and that she loved how I sang. I beamed...until she complimented me on my guitar playing and songwriting. I blamed it on the bad lighting, until another person told me the same. I threw some chairs out the window, and I felt better. Bonehead showed me more of his crappy songs today. I wasn't even aware that he still existed. I thought they just edited 3 more people into the videos so they wouldn't look so empty. His songs were called "Bonehead's Spring Break," "Bonehead's Christmas Vacation," and "Bonehead's Trip to Grandma's." I told him that he needed a vacation. I am so witty sometimes.
Friday
I went to the barber's and got my head shaved. Saw the barber selling my hair as I was leaving. I wish I'd thought of that. I'm only a multi-millionaire, after all, and I could use some money. When I came home, I heard a scream. "Liam?!?! Your hair..." I recognized it as belonging to my biggest fan, who insisted upon living in my house because she claimed I had asked her to marry me. She even showed me that I had her name tattooed on my arm, and she had mine on hers. God, I must've been really stoned. I said okay, you can live here so long as you get rid of that ugly fur coat. She said she wasn't, but I then remembered she was an actress. If I were to stay with her, I might be on even more magazine covers. Inspired, I invited her to a Beatles tribute band concert I am going to tonight. At the concert, a reporter began to interview my girlfriend...what's her name? Let me check my arm here...oh. Patsy. Big star that I am, I said, "Excuse me, but I'll also answer some questions." "Who're you?" he asked. "I'm Liam Gallagher. You know, the lead singer and star of Oasis?" "No you're not. You don't look a bit like him." I had to throw three chairs out the window to calm down after that. Patsy stopped me before I could get to the couch. Doesn't anyone realize this is the way for me to relieve my feelings? Other than drugs, of course. I'm so misunderstood. I think I'll blame it on Noel.
Saturday
I had a brilliant idea this morning--I need my own personal jet. This way I can take as many narcotic substances I want with me on long trips. I called up Noel. "I think your lack of hair has messed with your mind, man," he said sleepily. "It's four AM!" "Of course I knew that!" This is just one example of how I can save myself in a stupid mistake. It's part of my genius. "I...I was just calling to piss you off, man! Yeah! To piss you off!" Noel hung up on me. That bastard. Just wait till Mark David Chapman gets him. So I went back to sleep and woke up at noon. It occured to me that I hadn't assured Alex that I knew he existed recently. That pisses him off, so I called him up. "Hey, Albert!" I said groggily, under the influence of the White Out I was currently inhaling. "My name is Alan," he replied angrily. "Of course I knew that! Just a joke, man. D'you wanna come check out jets with me?" He brightened at the chance to actually leave the recording studio he's lived in for the past year. We go to the airport but no one is interested in selling. Oh, well. I'll get Noel to come tomorrow.
Sunday
For the first time in his life, Noel was actually right about something. (By the way, Noel, if you happen to have stolen this notebook, I didn't mean that. You're still wrong.) I got a bit misled on the way to the airport, but there were planes landing and taking off so I decided it was the right place. "Hey, you!" Noel called to a man walking ahead of us. "Me brother here's interested in buying his own private plane." "The Falcon's not for sale, if you want her," he said, and walking into a room, I heard him holler, "Chewie, what the hell are you doing to the hyperdrive?!?!" Noel and I exchange looks and run back to my car. I manage to find England by nightfall, and we spend the night in a hotel. That's where I am now. I'd be at home, except for Noel's stupid directions that we should make a left turn at Albuquerque. That bastard. Just wait until Mark David Chapman gets him...

Volume Two

Monday
I decided that a jet just wasn't the way to go. For one thing, the flight teacher screamed and went into a coma when he heard I wanted to learn to fly a plane. After inhaling generous amounts of pesticide, I set off to find my way back home. I stuffed my brother in the trunk --I've had quite enough of his advice-- and pondered what exactly it was I needed as I sped down the long and winding road. That's a Beatles song, by the way. "That's it!" I slammed on the brakes and heard a scream from the trunk. I was so happy that I let Noel out. "I've found my purpose! I want to be a singer in a rock'n'roll band!" "You are, you arse." He hitchhiked a ride home and was sitting on my couch when I got to my house. Patsy came downstairs and yelled at me, but the cloud of pesticide around me obscured most of it. By the time it cleared, Noel was gone. That bastard. Just wait till Mark David Chapman gets him. I need to give him a call sometime. He's almost as big of a Lennon fan as I am.
Tuesday
I ran into Crispian Mills today. We got into a big fight over who was better, John Lennon or George Harrison. Alan kept butting in and arguing for Ringo, but he doesn't matter. He's not even a member of the band anymore. No, wait a second, that's Tommy. I mean Tony. All these other members are so hard to keep straight! Well, anyway, I told Crispian he could waste away his insignificant little life in his little shrine if he wanted to, meditating and sniffing incense, but I've got big plans. I'm going to be bigger than the Beatles. Oh, and my backup band, too. Of course this means I'll have to quit my job at McDonald's, but I must make sacrifices for my fame if I am to be the Beatles of the nineties. Ah-hem, if I want Oasis to be the Beatles of the nineties. Whatever.
Wednesday
I was having a really good dream about taking over the world last night. I was just about to broadcast Supersonic across the universe (Across the Universe is a Beatles song written by John Lennon, a close, personal friend of mine) when I was awoken by an onslaught of screaming. I leaned over to glance out the window and saw a bunch of teenage girls standing in my front lawn. It was like Beatlemania. I was about to step out onto the balcony and wave when my alarm went off again. I should've known it was too good to be true. Seems like all I get is reporters. I glanced out the window and was nearly blinded by camera flashes. Yup, they were all there. "We really need to move," I told my girlfriend, What's-her-name at breakfast. "How are we gonna get out of the house?" she asked. "We've gotten out before," I commented. "Not when they put up barricades to keep us in." I looked more closely out the window and saw she was right.
Thursday
Still cooped up in my own home, I finally learned my girlfriend's name. It's Patsy. I think I even spelled it right! I looked out the window and someone put a megaphone to their mouth. "We're ready and waiting," he said. "So when are you gonna get married?" At this, I ran to the front door and yelled back, "We aren't! At least, not anytime soon!" I could count about fifteen different tabloid names in all on the cameras, and four vans were parked on my lawn. "What are you doing? Get the hell off my lawn!" They grumbled and snapped more pictures. I was near furious. "Get away! Shoo! Skedaddle!" Even so, I had to chase the last two for two blocks before they gave up. As I was returning to my house, I saw my brother casually stroll by. "Trouble with the media?" he asked, following me into my house. "You could say that," I groaned. "Pat--Patsy? Yeah, uh, Patsy, I think that's the last of 'em!" I called. She told us that she had chased the rest out of the back yard. Noel immediately headed for the kitchen. "Hey, Liam, who drank all the milk?" he asked, shaking the empty carton. "Patsy..." I accused.
Friday
The tabloids at the Supermarket today were full of my pictures. I bought all of them with the last of my McDonald's salary. The manager told me I hadn't shown up for the past three years so he didn't figure he should pay me. Some people just don't understand the pressures of being a huge rock star. After throwing the drink machine out the drive-through window he gave me a couple bucks and told me to get the hell out of his restaurant. I can take a hint. Luckily I just happened to have a few thousand pounds in the bank. There are some advantages to being a huge rock star. "Liam?!?! Your hair..." said a voice. I knew I'd heard it somewhere. "Hey do I know you?" I asked the guy who said it. "Sure you do. I'm Paul McGuigan," he said. "Doesn't ring a bell..." I began. "I'm the bassist for your band, man! I'm the bassist for Oasis!" He was getting hysterical. "You are?" "YES!! I am! I am the bassist for your band! I am the bass player! I'm Guigsy!" "Then why didn't you say so?" I asked. He shook his head and bought a gumball from the maching before leaving. What a jerk. I must've been really stoned to let him in the band.
Saturday
I broke up with my band today. Those jerks. All we ever do is Noel's songs. Just because I can't write a decent song doesn't mean I can't do a solo project. Who knows? Maybe if I had Patsy on back-up vocals, and if I could get one of the Kula Shaker guys to play some sitar stuff...I think I'll go ask Crispian. I found him in a recording studio with what I thought was a stronger drug smell than Oasis's, but it turned out to be a million sticks of incense, scented candles, and Oriental perfumes. Crispian was picking out a wild sitar solo when I arrived, so I waited impatiently until he had finished. "Hey, Liam," he said, leaving the recording room, before I could get a word in edgewise. "You want me to do sitar work on your solo album, huh? Why are you doing a solo album when you can't write a song to save your life?" I was speechless. This was just plain spooky, man. I couldn't work with someone who could read my mind like that. Being in a band with my brother is bad enough. I made a hasty excuse and got out of there. It was so good to get out that the air outside actually seemed fresh. So who could I get to work with me?
Sunday
Rejoined Oasis today. The guys saw the fault of their ways and begged me to come back. (If Noel says differently, that I was the one who begged, he's a liar. I'd never stoop that low, not even to be part of the next Beatles.) I was nice enough to be their lead singer again. There was mass rejoicing, of course. Then Noel handed me the lyrics to another new song-- does this guy ever stop writing?-- and we spent a long, tiring day in the studio recording it. It's about twelve thirty at night as I write this, way past my bedtime, but I have to write. Someday I can auction off this diary for a hell of a lot of pounds. Everyone wants to read about me, right? I know I do. I've got the articles in three of the tabloids I picked up Friday, when I ran into that one guy, memorized. Being in the studio again was all right, but next week will be different. Next week, me and my backup band are going to America. Unfortunately not in my private jet, but first class is good enough. There are some advantages to being a huge rock star. Oh yeah-- I forgot to pack. Better get around to that. Let's see-- plane leaves at seven AM?

Volume Three

Monday
They love us in America. When we got off the plane, people were screaming like it was the British Invasion. They didn't even cheer Paul McCartney, who got off the plane right behind us. They had all these "I Love Paul" signs-- Americans obviously go for our bassist and rhythm guitarist. We waved and smiled for all the cameras, doing our best to keep between them and the Great Paul McCartney. Noel got his autograph, that bastard. Mark David Chapman take the both of them. I need some more glue. They just don't have the good stuff here in the States. Just when I could go for a nose full of white out. The price I pay for fame...it boggles my mind. Not that that's very hard to do...
Tuesday
Got to interact with the fans today, taking a trip to the mall. Seeing that every kid there had a shirt that said "Zero" in silver letters on a black background, I decided to be cool and bought one myself. It complimented my new baldness splendidly, if I do say so myself...and I just did. "Whoa man," some kid (wearing the same shirt I was) said. "You're that guy! The lead singer in that band!" I nodded and let him continue the compliments. "I just got your new album, and it's great, man! My favorite song's still 'Bullet With Butterfly Wings,' but all of your songs are great. You looked so much taller in concert, but-- hey, just give me your autograph." "Bullet With Butterfly Wings?" I was confused. What the hell was that? "Your hit single. Oh...so you're not Billy Corgan." "No," I said, and he began to walk away. "No! Wait! I'm LIAM GALLAGHER!!! From OASIS!" He didn't care. The people in the mall just walked on by me, except one who said, "That's the band with the wonderful, adorable, talented..." life was looking sunny again, until she said, "...guitarist, right? Noel Something-or-Other?" It hurt, almost as much as the wall I slammed my head against. This white-out withdrawl is driving me mad.
Wednesday
In desparation I caught a taxi to the office supply store and stocked up on white out and scented markers. Things were looking brighter, so I suggested to Noel that we should postpone the release of our album a couple more months. He'd do anything to get my markers, so he agreed. I left him happily sniffing Lemon Yellow and watching the third video of the Beatles Anthology. He watches that more than I think is healthy, but who gives a damn? He has his drug of choice, I have mine. Live and let live, but scream like an idiot anyway, that's my motto. I think I'll stop by the Dakota this afternoon, visit Yoko Ono. Yoko wasn't home, but her son Sean was. "Hello," he said uneasily. "You're from that band that thinks they're the Beatles, right?" "We don't think we're the Beatles," I argued. "We are the Beatles." "You're crazy," Sean said, "and me ma told me not to let any of you in, 'cept for the songwriter. Doesn't trust the lot of you with her furniture." And the lad had the nerve to force me out! When I told the story to Noel, he just headed over to the Dakota and spent three hours there. Did I ever mention how I hated that bastard?
Thursday
I re-shaved my head this morning, because the stubble was starting to annoy me. The rest of the band has begun referring to me as Bowling-ball head. I called Noel "Furball", so he got all haughty and fled to the hair salon. Well, anyway, from the clippings of my hair rose a six-inch tall ghost. "Liam, Liam," it called. The voice was somewhere between the Maharishi's and John Lennon's. "That's right, I'm John Lennon. Why must you shear off your gorgeous hair, a symbol of the legacy of my wondrous band, the Plastic Ono Band." "I'm sorry, great one," I replied, falling to my knees. "I needed a change." "Let it grow back, son. Let me never be forgotten through your haircut. I shall live forever." With that, he vanished. "Uh, whatever," I said, laughing and taking another snort of white out. I really ought to go to Office Max more. This brand of white out has worked wonders.
Friday
Got word today that Noel flew back to England. AND BOY ARE HIS ARMS TIRED!!! Ha ha! I'm so witty. Good riddance. I went to an interview for a radio station. "Hello," the interviewer said. "I hate your music, I don't give a damn about your views and opinions, but apparently some of our listeners do so start talking." He fell asleep halfway through my life story. It sucked, because I hadn't even gotten to the sixth grade yet. I went home and threw a chair out the hotel window, so the owner slapped a lawsuit on me and threw me out of the hotel. Only place I could find that would let me in was a little motel with a falling-apart outhouse and a sign that said, "Beware of Rabid Alligators." What is an alligator anyway?
Saturday
Bonehead got chased into my room by a couple of rabid alligators. He ran in and slammed the door behind him, panting, "Of all the places you chose to stay..." "It's alright, man," I reassured him. "Here, have a whiff." I held out the white out and he sniffed it, then looked much improved. "Okay, then, we're flying home today. We booked you a seat and everything. The other guys are in your car. We can't find the airport." "I can help!" I announced, but Bonehead only laughed and said something about my directional skills that was completely uncalled for, so like hell am I gonna immortalize it here. We found the airport, after all, and made the flight right after our scheduled one. What's the big deal?
Sunday
It's not my fault we're in Germany! Really! I wouldn't have led us onto the wrong plane if we weren't in the wrong hallway in the first place! And none of us speak German and we have no baggage so everyone's miserable, and no one (literally) understands. Hell, I'm not even sure we're in Germany! What does German sound like, anyways? All I know is "Ja" is "yes" and "Hamster" means "hamster", as well as "Ich bin ein Berliner" means "I am a jelly donut!" And I'm tired and cold and hungry and pissed and bored and exasperated and I FEEL LIKE SHITE! I just know it's Noel's fault, that bastard. Just wait until Mark David Chapman gets him...

Volume Four

Monday
There is only one German phrase you need to know, and that is "Wo ist die Toilette?" Saved me when I really had to go. But enough about German toilets, and back to our predicament. Bonehead figured out how to work a payphone and called Noel, who told us to, and I quote him, "fuck off," so we decided to take a guess on which plane to go on. I'm on that plane now. Hopefully it is taking me back to England, or at least some place where the people speak-- what language do I speak? Oh yeah, English...good thing I stocked up on White Out before we left. This is going to be a long journey.
Tuesday
London at last! After a brief side trip to the Antarctic, I'm back on British soil. Or concrete, take your pick. It's good to be back home. Anyways, walking down the streets of London, I ran into a guy with a Beatle hairdo. His eyebrows were nothing more than prickly stubble, and his face was unnaturally pale, but I could tell that he was copying my style. "Hey man," I said angrily, "Who the hell do you think you are?" "I'm Marilyn Manson," he sneered. "Fuck you Oasis bastards! My band is gonna pull the ultimate shocker and become the next Beatles, so you and your little Brit-pop puffs can shove it up your arse!" "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I sneered back. In ten seconds we were brawling. I so love being a rock star.
Wendsday
Me speling cheker is offtoady so ye'll hav ta excuz thiz. Tooday I went hom, an' Patsy was al mad at me fer not tellin her wen I went. But she fergivd me wen I showd her her pictur on a new tablod (tablid? Tebloid?). We both lik poplu--pol--to be famus. Noel wuz pizzed off t'be mentind in the article but screw him. Just wat til Mark David Chapman gits him. He says, "I wuzn't there, so shut up!" "Yer never there," I replied. "Thats whats wrong with yer." An' he says, "You stupid bastard, yer can't even spel!"
Thursday
Got my spellchecker fixed. It was just a case of white out inspiration. This new brand is stronger than most. It inspired me to write some more songs that don't rhyme right. See, I am a musician. I am a better tamborinist than John Lennon. I AM THE BEST TAMBORINIST THAT EVER LIVED! Even though I'm not dead yet. But I know what it's like to be dead. Not that I'll tell you. And neither to malign the sacred memory of Lennon. My encounter with Crispian inspired me to put up a shrine to the late Beatle, with incense and candles and such. When Patsy went into the living room, she screamed so loudly that my ears were ringing more than they did after Wibbling Rivalry. She knocked over a candle. Oh yea-- my house burned down today.
Friday
"Am I dead?" I asked Patsy over breakfast in the hotel. "No, you're not-- unfortunately." "But the tabloids say I am," I argued. "Are the tabloids always right?" she countered. "Yes!" I am still a believer in tabloids, no matter what some other people-- who will remain nameless-- say. "Oh yeah, Meg called before you got up. She says we can stay at their mansion until we find a new house." It was like a slap in the face. I was so shocked that I made the mistake of agreeing to it. We took our small amount of baggage to Noel's mansion. "Oh man Liam-- I heard you got killed in the fire!" he greeted us. "Does this tabloid believing thing run in the family or something?" Patsy asked. "I don't believe it!" my older brother Paul pointed out, swinging his head around a doorway. "Go home, Paul," Noel said. "Oh, fine." He disappeared with a pouty sigh.
Saturday
I awoke to the sounds of an argument. "Muppet Movie!" "Great Muppet Caper!" "No, the Muppets Take Manhattan!" The voices were those of my brother, his girlfriend, and my girlfriend. I couldn't believe my ears as I wandered down the stairs. "What are you arguing about?" I asked. "We want to watch a movie," Patsy said with barely controlled rage. "She hit me!" Meg said, pointing to Patsy. "Calm down everyone, calm down." What? Me, stopping an argument? What the hell is going on? "Why do we have to watch a stupid Muppet movie?" Patsy waved a butter knife at me. "Take back that statement about the Muppets," she warned. "Uh...okay, why don't we just watch all of them?"
Sunday
Welcome to the Muppet Marathon. I think I will see Kermit the Frog in my sleep, and the strains of the Rainbow Connection echo through my head. I have had quite enough of talking socks. "They're not talking socks," argued a voice. "John?" I asked. "John, is that you?" "I'm down here, Liam," the voice said, and I saw his ghost sitting on my empty popcorn bag. "Why are you here now?" I asked. "I'm here to warn you," he said. "Warn me? Of what?" I was confused. "Oh, I don't know, just to make you nervous." He flashed a grin. "Haunting people is so much fun!" "Liam? Liam, you down here?" I heard Patsy call. "Oh, gotta run," John Lennon said. "Beware of the--"

Volume Five

Monday
Don't you hate it when your white out runs out on you just like that? Not like John would say anything important, he's just messing with my mind. I love messing with people's minds, I love messing with my own mind. Hmm...that needs some work. I'll think about it. There really isn't anything to write about today. Got chased by fans, trashed a hotel room, went to a football game, came home. We didn't even win. I think I'll blame it on Noel, for not being there. It's always his fault. It's probably his fault that today is so boring. I can't remember the last time I had a good fight with him. Maybe I should tomorrow. Oh yeah, and I got married today. Man, I must be really stoned.
Tuesday
I had the worst dream last night. Our album came out, and we had turned into Hanson. You know, that group of little boys that sing like girls? I think it's from the references they're getting to the Beatles. Hah! Don't they know that we are the Beatles? Well, anyway, in my dream, I wanted to fight them for making our music suck, and I did--or just one of them, the singer who both looks and sounds like a girl--AND HE BEAT ME! Man, what a nightmare. That's it--no more white out after midnight. Not to mention that I awoke with my face in a potted plant with dirt up my nose. I wonder if I sleepwalk. I guess I'll have to ask my wife, what's her name...
Wednesday
Yeah, I sleepwalk. I'm only a bit disappointed that I can't sleep-fly. Well, anyways, I saw Marilyn Manson on TV today, singing Love Me Do. It really caused mayhem. There were people heralding the end of the world, because Marilyn Manson was no longer the weird Satanist they knew and love. Some said it was a popularity stunt. I, king of popularity, doubt it. I think that he wants to be me, just like everyone else on this inferior world, and he is trying but failing miserably at it. You gotta give him credit for trying, though. Most people won't even admit that they like me. Except Noel. When we aren't fighting. I love him like a brother. Fortunately, we don't stop often. I think he's trying to steal my diary...
Thursday
So Liam's writing a diary. How like him. Well, I'll put a stop to that. I'll take over! Yeah, I'll show him! This is now...
THE DIARY OF NOEL GALLAGHER!
Until I get sick of it, anyways. Today I went to Manchester to visit my mother. I got into the car, remembered that I can't drive and my driver, Les, was on vacation, and called Meg on my cellular phone. Maybe this was unnecessary, because she was just a few meters away in our house, but it's a bit late to do anything. So, anyway, we drive down there, and you wouldn't believe who else is there...
Friday
Me, Liam! I'm sorry if I worried anyone, but you should've known that I'd get it back. Yes, once again, this is...
THE DIARY OF LIAM GALLAGHER!
I knew it was Noel who stole my diary! And I gave him a bloody nose for it, too. Then Meg gave me one. I think Noel's been giving her karate lessons, because that hurt! Excuse me if any blood drips onto the pages. Anyways, I'm writing this in the middle of the night in the attic with a chair in front of the door. Not going to take any more chances. Noel has been threatening all day that he's going to publish my diary. He's always been cruel to me.
Saturday
Tony McCarroll called me up today. He said there was a special on Oprah about "Drummers Who Were Kicked Out and the Band Members That Booted Them" that he has signed us up for. They were filming it next Monday. Alan said it sounded like a good time and decided to fly down to New York with me tomorrow. It'll be my first good fight in over a day! Man, I can hardly wait. Noel just laughed hysterically when I told him, but Patsy told me that Guigsy told her that Bonehead told him that Kate told him that Meg told her that Noel was taking a separate plane to watch the show. Well, let him, just so long as he doesn't leech on my publicity.
Sunday
Today passed in a white out haze. Alan and I made it to our hotel no problem though we've been getting anonymous phone calls of someone making rude noises. Tony is so childish! I wish I knew where he was staying so I could do the same. Oh well, let's see...so I don't forget, the coke is stashed under the bed, the pot behind the TV, the beer in the top drawer of the dresser, the white out in the second, and the glue stick I'm keeping in my pocket. Okay, I'm all set!

Vol. 1-5 by Veralidaine

Page 2 (Vol. 6-? by ws&mg)

©1997, 1998