Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

Dear Journal,

Watching my Cheerios perform flawlessly at Nationals, not only was I tickled to collect the disproportionately large trophy that I plan to use to flaunt my abnormally tremendous skills as an educator, but I realized somethingdeplorable:

Will Schuester was right.

As per his innate ability to be wide of the mark, Journal, he was also overwhelmingly wrong, but this entry will not be utilized to mock his disgusting perm or dreadful lusting after that dismal ginger.

Journal, my kids don't just fear me. At least one of them loves me too, Journal. He told me so, when I was monitoring his drunken stupor after S spiked the punch at our appropriately large and not-in-any-way illegal victory celebration [Remind me later to reward her somehow, Journal.].

As I was carrying him like a particularly pear-shaped sack of potatoes back to his hotel room, he began mumbling about his terrible, emotionally-abusive father. K was under the impression that his father was less proud of him, one of my talent-endowed Cheerios, "prancing about" on national television than that tower of a quarterback. The horror of it, Journal. My own Nazi-hunting parents even took the time to confirm that they were swollen with righteous pride for me in the form of expensive parcels chock-a-block with various Nazi limbs.

I put him to bed, firmly denying him the cowardly alternative of heaving the poison from his system. I've lived with high levels of arsenic in my blood for twenty-three and a half years, Journal; it should be unproblematic for a twelve-year-old boy to maintain his liquor for one night.

Secure his alcohol-induced haze, K confessed that he loved me, including the endearing, while poorly selected, slurred moniker of "Mom." Usually, I would not acquiesce to the pitiful emotions that rule most others, Journal, but my recently broken heart prompted me to return the sentiment.

What is it about Kurt Hummel, Journal, that turns me into a weak, compassionate shell of the champion I should be? Is it his baby-blue eyes? Or the way he so obviously places me on a higher pedestal than the atrocious heart-breaker, William Schuester? [Is it possible to turn him against Schuester? He is intellectually superior to B and potentially more self-motivated than S...]

Alas, Journal, I cannot discuss K with you for much longer; I must enact a plan to foil the glee club's chances at their Regionals competition [Might it be possible to situate myself at the judges table?]. I will leave you with another question, Journal: why, after proclaiming an adoring love for me, does it transform K into a puddle of perpetual terror when I call him "K"?