I think I must be a Troll

Oh, hello.

I've come to believe that I am a troll and not a young lady.

I am short and skinny with eyes the color of nature-things, and my hair is lopsided and messy in the mornings. I am rather fond of being nocturnal, and when I neglect showers, I tend to smell funny. I am quite fine with crawling about on my hands and knees. I rather dislike itchy things and spend a good deal of my time thinking very troll-like thoughts--[trolls think about things like birds and peppermints and leaves and dancing troll dances, if you were wondering, dear friends].

I must say, I would be rather content living in the hollow of an old tree and munching on grass and leaves and twigs all my days. I could make friends with the woodland animals and splash in muddy-mud puddles. It all sounds rather nice, doesn't it?

I visited some trollkin a while ago. They lives in a low-lying valley to the south, surrounded by hills and trees and rivers and llama farms.

I met the dear Hans Pipkin, who was kind enough to show me his accordion. There was a troll with a tophat and large feet, and a motherly looking troll as well. There was merriment and dancing, and trollfood and trollcheer. I really, gosh, think I must be a troll.


My dear wonderland friend came with me. I do not think she is a troll. I don't know what she is, rightly, but she is my friend all the same. Aside from visiting trollkin, we explored the shore of a great river. There was rain on the horizon and jovialty in our laughter. The sun was lost and weary amongst the clouds--this was how I felt the whole day. I felt quite fond of being lost in my surroundings, lost in what was life. I was a good deal tired, mind you. But by no means does my weariness imply sadness. Sometimes, when I am so very tired, time seems to move slower. I have some of my most wonderful adventures when I am weary.