Hi Diary, I know that this is my first time writing anything to you, but I wanted you to know that I care. How I long to rifle through your pages recounting childhood dreams, aspirations, interests and girls I liked. But there were none. How I wish I could page through my history and see everything with a new perspective and laugh at the childish and carefree point of view I had back then. But I don’t need to, because I remember, and that’s not how things were.
What it all boils down to is this: You were never there for me. You were all about words and not about feelings, ideas or freeform expression. If you didn’t have blue lines all over your pages, If you weren’t bound so tightly that you made writing a joke, if you were made from a higher quality acid-free paper so I could be certain of your archival quality, or better yet, if you were able to contain abstract or immaterial concepts and retain them with perfect clarity so that I could recall them exactly as they originally were instead of having to remember them as objects or colors or even worse, WORDS, then I certainly would have let you into my life a lot more.
But you are stupid and useless, fat and empty. That’s the most polite way I know of saying it. My feelings are, of course, much deeper than that, but don’t bother asking me to write it all down because deep feelings can’t be written, and if they could you wouldn’t understand.