writeThis.com has obtained the rights to the mysterious "the diary of a Diarist". Whispered about behind academia's closed doors, we bring the entries to the public here, unedited, for the first time. There is much speculation as to the diary's author, but no definitive proof.
diary of a Diarist
Jul. 18, 1996
Last night I wrote about my day (July 17, 1996) in my diary. I used a sturdy stylus pen with a brushed satin-chrome barrel and rubberized grip. That was neat. I embellished one or two of the day's events for the purposes of posterity, but who will ever know? I also drew a picture of a naked woman in the margin and made one of her nipples bigger than the other. That made me smile. After I looked at the picture a little bit, I colored over it with a thick, black magic marker that I took from a cup on my desk. And then I closed my diary and put it in the drawer. Well, that's all for today.
p.s diary: I made sure to carefully place my neat pen in the cup on my desk and put the cap back on the magic marker.
Jul 19, 1996
Last night I wrote about my day (July 18, 1996) in my diary. My sturdy stylus pen ran out of ink. I thought that was very strange, considering I had only used it once. So instead I used a Sanford® Eagle® #2 pencil that I sharpened with the manual pencil sharpener that I keep on top of my unsigned copy of The White Hotel. I plan to trace over last night's entry with a pen, preferably with black ink. And that's not all. I was also very disappointed because I noticed that I could see through the page of last night's entry to the naked woman I had drawn in the margin on the other side, even though I colored it over with a thick, black magic marker. That nipple really showed through. I think the paper in my diary is not up to snuff. I don't think I should be able to see through the paper to the other side of the page. But I flipped through the pages of my unsigned copy of The White Hotel and I could see through that paper too. It's all very puzzling. I wasn't quite sure what I should do? It's like a mystery or something.
I'll admit that it was a bumpy entry last night. That muffled noise from the closet distracted me a bit. I tried to ignore it, but it wasn't easy. I almost got up and kicked the closet door in anger.
But I can't wait until the future when someone reads what I wrote in there last night about what happened yesterday. I get giddy thinking about it. Shucks (I can't write words like shucks in my diary), in spite of all that happened while I was writing in my diary, it turned out to be one of the darnedest (can't write that word in my diary either) and most thrilling entries yet. Until tomorrow...
Jul 19, 1996
I just finished writing about my day (July 19, 1996). I was so excited about what happened that I couldn't wait until tomorrow to write about it. Well, it seems that my sturdy stylus pen came with extra ink. I found a cartridge while I was fumbling through my desk drawer for my gun. I'm still not pleased with the paper quality in my diary and may have to make some calls tomorrow. Believe you me, they will hear about this. That noise in the closet quieted down a bit after I shot a hole in the door. I hope she's not hurt. I remember my daddy saying that you have to take good care of the things you love. Maybe I'll feed her and give her another bath. I hope she doesn't struggle as much as she did last time, but I've learned to tie better knots since then. I was thinking about putting a yellow dress on her, but then again, red might be nice. No underwear though, because she might use that to hurt herself. She seems so troubled. Ah, this paper. It's really starting to frustrate me, but I can't contain the sheer joy of writing with this pen again. I'm so excited. It will be difficult to sleep tonight. Until tomorrow
may 5, 1999
i shall name you d because i am too lazy to capitalize or to fully write out a name. plus, diary reminds me of diarreaha or however the heck you spell it. it's gross. i'm not a silly teenage boy.
but then again, maybe i am.
may 8, 1999
hey there d,
it's me again. isn't it funny how i try to be polite with an inanimate object? you're nothing but a book of blank white pages that i spill ink upon. please don't take that personally.
i do suppose i have an image of you. i imagine you as a nice richard dryfuss (sp!) kind of guy who nods knowingly at me as i spill my guts. i wonder, what would richard think?
well, maybe richard wouldn't care but i'm going to pretend he does.
i wonder why people are rude. they are selfish people with no one to blame but themselves. no one will come to their funeral but they will be too dead and rude to care. i try to be nice but sometimes being nice is alot of hard work. like smiling at the convenience store guy as he blows smoke in my face. i thought about next time spitting in his face and then just say, hey - it's my choice! wonder if anyone can get anything bad from second-hand spit? i hope so.