Dear Diary...

I think since the first time I poured out my heart on paper, I've kept at least 6 different diaries, all no doubt crammed with childish secrets ("I didn't make my bed today...I hope Mom doesn't notice!"), typical teenage ravings (OMGG HE IS SOOO HOT), and random scatterings of philosophical musings here and there (I bet the person who said 'step on a crack, break your mother's back' didn't have a mother. Or a father. Heck, he was a heartless orphan).

Everybody should have kept a diary once in his/her life. It's like a mandatory STOP! square on the board game of Life. If you didn't buy one, then somebody must have given you one as a Christmas or birthday present, with pretty stationary and shiny lock and key. I admit, I was quite ecstatic when I first got mine. 8 years old, I think, in the little shop in the lobby of the Disney hotel where I was staying over the summer. I still have it, you know. It's tucked away, hidden under a pile of old sweaters in my closet. My first diary had Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Snow White on it, with a cutout heart-shaped mirror stuck to it and girly, exaggerated font with rather Barbie-like curlicues. (Yes, I had the Princess phase going on at the time. My next diary even had the words "Hello, Princess!" in purple font on the cover.)


You know the classic diary key? That tiny, simple one that every diary-manufacturer seems to use? That one was on my Disney Diary. I brought it along with me on a sleepover once to a friend's house, and lo and behold! My key could open her diary lock! Imagine! The coincidence! The magic! (Yes I was rather naive as a child.)

I experienced the normal teenager routine: the Dreaded Hormones!
You can imagine what was in my diary during those starry-eyed years.
(And can you believe I actually blacked out all mentions of my crush when I went back to read it afterwards? Yes, it's not just an urban myth: Girls are way too . . . )

Eventually, just like nearly every other diary-writer, my entries started appearing weekly, not daily, and then they slowly trickled to a rare paragraph here or there. Finally, I just stopped writing them altogether. They had become a burden, like a tedious task that I felt forced to keep doing, rather than an eagerly-anticipated pleasure.

It took me 3 years to finish that diary.

During that time, I had begun, but never finished, 3 other diaries.

Diaries aren't meant to be finished. That's my theory. Notice how hard it is to finish one?

They're just meant to be a sounding board for people's thoughts, randomness, rages, lovesick speeches, etc. They don't really mind very much whether or not you finish them.

What's in your diary?