From sodapop@maniac.us.itd.umich.eduTue Jan 17 16:56:49 1995
Date: Mon, 3 Oct 1994 18:48:49 -0400 (EDT)
From: Wendi Strang-Frost <sodapop@maniac.us.itd.umich.edu>
To: jason's amber <shadows@umich.edu>
Subject: Diary


	Nothing helps; not Laughter's warmth, nor the solace of the sweat 
lodge, nor sitting at the bottom of Laughter's river till my lungs nearly 
filled with silt.  Not even the cold could drive out the sickness from 
the pit of my stomach.

	I'm worse than Random ever was.  At least he had my mother's 
consent.  I didn't have Sky's grandmother's, hers, nor the next, nor the 
next, nor any of the ones that came before.  Does a larger hypocrite than 
I exist?  I have no right to hold anything against Random anymore; 
nothing at all.  He's a hundred times the father I was.  My son is dead.  
His son lives, even if he lives the life of an insufferable idiot, who 
cares for nothing but his own pleasures and wants.  I have a six foot, 
blue-haired girl to ever remind me of that fact.

	It's getting harder and harder to look her in the eyes, to look 
anyone in the eyes.  I'm not sure if Laughter knows the significance yet; 
that Sky's father was nothing more than the product of hate and 
mischief.  She need not worry about me fathering a child by her.  I doubt 
if I'll have the courage to hold her again, not until I lose the sickness 
in the pit of my stomach.