Dear Diary
Nov 2, 2012 1:45:39 GMT -5
Post by Emily Southgate on Nov 2, 2012 1:45:39 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
I forgot your younger sibling at home, tucked inside the fluffy yellow stuff in the attic. I would ask mum to get it, but they must never, ever lay their hands on that book. If they ever found the things their dearest most precious fourteen year old daughter who is completely normal and not a freak even though she's genetically challenged have written about, I, dear diary, would die of shame. I had really bad taste when I was little, okay? Don't judge me. I'm sure you had really bad taste too. I bet you ate dirt when you were a tree.
They told me the yellow fluffy was poisonous, so I knew they'd never look there. It can't be that bad. It's so spongy.
Anyway, diary, that's enough about me. Let me tell you about you. You are my diary. My confidante and the friend nearest and dearest to my heart, the only one who will ever know my deepest, darkest secrets that, if they ever got out, would destroy me. Yes, I am using a dictionary. Shut up. You're a book.
Diary, I am going to write inside you a lot. There are tough times ahead and I can't promise I won't cry all over you or tell you things you never wanted to know. I am going to hide you under my bed inside the bed holder thing, which will be uncomfortable, I know, but there's no attic here. And, because I have roommates who probably aren't afraid of the yellow fluffy (Not that there is any), someone is going to find and read you at some point. If you're not me and you're reading this, please please please stop. I'm begging you with all of my adorable fourteen-year-old wiles. Every last one. And if you won't stop, then please don't laugh. And if you do laugh, then please don't share it with everyone. If what I've heard is true, there are people here who will know where you are just by being near me, so I'm going to ask very nicely. Please don't read anymore.
Em
I forgot your younger sibling at home, tucked inside the fluffy yellow stuff in the attic. I would ask mum to get it, but they must never, ever lay their hands on that book. If they ever found the things their dearest most precious fourteen year old daughter who is completely normal and not a freak even though she's genetically challenged have written about, I, dear diary, would die of shame. I had really bad taste when I was little, okay? Don't judge me. I'm sure you had really bad taste too. I bet you ate dirt when you were a tree.
They told me the yellow fluffy was poisonous, so I knew they'd never look there. It can't be that bad. It's so spongy.
Anyway, diary, that's enough about me. Let me tell you about you. You are my diary. My confidante and the friend nearest and dearest to my heart, the only one who will ever know my deepest, darkest secrets that, if they ever got out, would destroy me. Yes, I am using a dictionary. Shut up. You're a book.
Diary, I am going to write inside you a lot. There are tough times ahead and I can't promise I won't cry all over you or tell you things you never wanted to know. I am going to hide you under my bed inside the bed holder thing, which will be uncomfortable, I know, but there's no attic here. And, because I have roommates who probably aren't afraid of the yellow fluffy (Not that there is any), someone is going to find and read you at some point. If you're not me and you're reading this, please please please stop. I'm begging you with all of my adorable fourteen-year-old wiles. Every last one. And if you won't stop, then please don't laugh. And if you do laugh, then please don't share it with everyone. If what I've heard is true, there are people here who will know where you are just by being near me, so I'm going to ask very nicely. Please don't read anymore.
Em
