I woke up, totally unkempt from minor depression, and thought too immediately that my mother found my journal in her car. That was the only safe place I could have left it in, other than in the confines of my bedroom. Unluckily, it was a receipt she found, and not my Monologue. Now I'm quite sure it's at school, or it was at school and is now idling -- entryless for the 14th of August -- on top of somebody else's desk.
I couldn't bear this. God, it feels like I lost a child, or a best friend. I don't know the last thing I wrote, nor the first word I put in it. I could take it as a sign to bury that old life and find a new one to document in my unused Moleskine, but it doesn't quite work that way. I spend at least half an hour every night, writing about that twenty-four hour shit we call a day and, certainly, that journal's not something to be misplaced after sixty-seven days.
I completely agree with Ate Meggy; life was hectic last week. Tests were handed out and although all my scores were good, I barely had time for myself, and I'm still a hideous kid tainted by social awkwardness. I know we're all twisted and handicapped, one way or another, and it's the prime source of our little tribulations. It's effing Yin and effing Yang. I just don't think I need my journal robbed to have the darker part of that circle filled in. My existence is already bad on its own and you'd know exactly why if you've been insane and avidly following my blog, which I don't think you should do.
My life is far less interesting than yours but those pages, I need them. That was my life taken away from me. You don't know crap about that because you don't keep a journal. Consider yourself fortunate and don't start one. However, if you do have a journal, then be inspired by my sucky situation and tell yourself that you have a lot to lose. I've got a lot lost already and the thought of anybody being able to use my life story against me flips my head like Satan's pitchfork would. I hope to get it back before it further ruins any side of my life, or other people's lives.
I couldn't bear this. God, it feels like I lost a child, or a best friend. I don't know the last thing I wrote, nor the first word I put in it. I could take it as a sign to bury that old life and find a new one to document in my unused Moleskine, but it doesn't quite work that way. I spend at least half an hour every night, writing about that twenty-four hour shit we call a day and, certainly, that journal's not something to be misplaced after sixty-seven days.
I completely agree with Ate Meggy; life was hectic last week. Tests were handed out and although all my scores were good, I barely had time for myself, and I'm still a hideous kid tainted by social awkwardness. I know we're all twisted and handicapped, one way or another, and it's the prime source of our little tribulations. It's effing Yin and effing Yang. I just don't think I need my journal robbed to have the darker part of that circle filled in. My existence is already bad on its own and you'd know exactly why if you've been insane and avidly following my blog, which I don't think you should do.
My life is far less interesting than yours but those pages, I need them. That was my life taken away from me. You don't know crap about that because you don't keep a journal. Consider yourself fortunate and don't start one. However, if you do have a journal, then be inspired by my sucky situation and tell yourself that you have a lot to lose. I've got a lot lost already and the thought of anybody being able to use my life story against me flips my head like Satan's pitchfork would. I hope to get it back before it further ruins any side of my life, or other people's lives.
