Dear Diary,
We had a bittersweet celebration today in the Western District. I wore my all time favorite gown of the sheerest silvery gossemar fabric cut halter style, the words "beauty queen" could have been stamped in jewels upon my tierra. I felt so naughty that day, sneaking beneath my hems to don hot pink silken slippers. I figured who would really notice my slippers while I rode in the back of the parade wagon, perched on high with my fans waving and confetti dancing through the air.
Isn't he hot? I mean my companion, Valentin Renaldi, man of the people, the voice of my adoring fans. I didn't realize the depth of their devotion until at one stopping point, there was a group of orphaned girls singing choir style. Hey that is one of MY songs! I insisited I be allowed to step down. At once we were rushed by dozens of giggling and screaming young girls, all anxious to touch, shake my hand, just to be near to me. They pinned white poseys onto Valentin's suit jacket, a few I allowed to be woven within the hair. Such dear, sweet, demure, pretty little girls, that just want to be like me!
THE SONGBIRD BEAUTY QUEEN!
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