Open the box!

I still haven’t opened my box. The longer it remains closed the longer I feel like Joanna Southcott. Open the box. Open the box. I keep looking over my shoulder half expecting to be jumped by two bishops and a priest who want to sexually abuse me. I will open it soon.

Joanna was a wonderful woman. Mad perhaps, a religious nutter. The prophetess from Bedford. Unlike Joanna, I do not plan to die of flatus. Explode one day in some random accident perhaps, but not from an unreleased fart.

The box in question was given to me last Monday. The Sheffield Steel Rollergirls held a fundraiser to help send me to Canada. I was touched. Spending money to help grease the wheels, make contacts and embed myself in the scene. I will put it to good use.

I’m still open to donations. If anyone still wants to donate, the best way to do it is to place used, non-sequential notes in a plain brown envelope and place it in the third washroom along in the gentleman’s toilet at Sheffield Station.

Just give me the nod when you’ve done it. I’ll be standing under the main clock with a pink carnation in my hair.

I plan to, in the New Year, take an excursion down to Bedford in an attempt to open Joanna’s box. All I need is 24 volunteers willing to dress as bishops to accompany me.

I will open the box, but I’ll wait just a little bit longer.

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