Jane is convinced the dubious family who live on the block behind her stole her tattered yet precious volume of Sylvia Plath poetry that she got from a secondhand bookstore.
"Some people value their charmbracelets passed down from their great grandmothers, some hold onto their mother's atrocious as sin and cream puff bulgy wedding dress, and others adore their Johnny Depp autographs. Me? Morbid poetry. Because it's fucking art. And it inspires every pore in my body and makes a miniscule part of me stupendous."
Jane's friend Edna firmly believes Jane is acting petulantly and is off her rocker. She thinks Jane just had a childhood obsession with Harriet the Spy which bled over into her adolescence and that's why she's thinking of an inane excuse as to why they should break into these people's house and look for something.
Jane claims to Edna that she truly cannot find her copy of "The Colossus". Edna thinks she's full of shit and tells her it's probably wedged underneath her swamp of papers on her desk.
More to come. Stay tuned, y'alls.
Then segway to next tale...
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