Dear Diary

I killed a guy today.

And I didn't feel a thing.

Nah, I didn't really. But that would be cool if I really did, right? What would you guys do?

About two weeks ago, my family had dinner with two members from my Dad's administrative board at school. I'm totally a NERD in the way that, half of the time, I find what adults have to say quite interesting. Unless it's about money, people I don't know, or their taste in 40's music, I actually think adults have way more interesting things to say than kids. I mean, we're going to be spending the rest of our lives with our generation. I'm going to get SO BORED of them. Adults are all about to die. Everyone knows that being about to die makes a person way more interesting.

One of the things one of the faculty members mentioned was how healthy it is to write in a journal. Psychologically, of course, not cholesterol-wise or anything. So that night, I decided to try it out.

I grabbed a flashlight and hunted under my bed for some at-least nearly empty diary I had been given for Christmas or my birthday decades before. I finally found one, covered in dust, from when I was in third grade. I had written three or four pages about how frustrated I was that I had turned eleven already and had not yet received a letter accepting me into Hogwarts. I tore out those pages, not considering it to be a priceless piece of writing, and started writing.

I'm usually motivated to write for the purpose of impressing others. It's true. You hear about people who need to write because they have no other choice and writing to them is as important as eating or drinking. Most of the time, I think this is hogwash. Balderdash. Cockroach clusters. (Say what?) If it's true, that's great. You'll grow up to be a little Charles Dickens, won't you? That's all very well.

For once in my life, I'm happy to be writing just for me. I don't have to censor it. I can curse all I want and not have to hide the fact that I sometimes fantasize about killing large numbers of people in gruesome ways. I can write anything I want as OFTEN as I want. It's awesome.

Then again, most of the pages are filled with the words "No work and no play make Christopher a dull boy." But I write some other stuff too.

Of course, I write about you guys all the time. Each and every one of you. And your phone numbers. And where you live. I've been studying you, you know.

Nah, just kidding. None of you mean anything to me whatsoever.

What was the point of this post? Because I want you to be curious about what's in my journal? No, I've already made the necessary precautions against curious people who want to read what I've written in my journal. The first two pages of the journal are filled with threats like,

"If you read this, your head will explode into a million pieces and you'll go to hell."

So I'm safe.

No, the point of this post is because I think all of you should try it too. I was especially tentative about writing in a journal because I'm already insecure enough about my manhood, and writing in a diary is kind of wimpy. But I don't think about it like that anymore! I think of it like I'm a disciple of Jesus or an astronaut stranded in space and I'm recording what happens in my life for the sake of the greater good...

Or something.



Cheers,
That Blond Guy