I'm right, you're LEFT!

Dear Diary,

Emotion: Complicated. Will elaborate on.

Oh Diary, I am perplexed as to what emotional reaction I should assign to today, as it feels as two-sided as the mixed month of March. It came in like a lion of ecstasy, but devolved into a woeful lamb! I hear your pleas for me to elaborate— and fear not, Journal, for I will quench your thirst as a testament to our relationship of 693 (soon-to-be-694) conversations.

And, dear Diary, because I value our relationship so, I must confess to you that I view you as a person. Therefore, in a sense, you are my audience. And in accordance with the laws I learned in Journalism academy, I must tell you about the good news before the bad news.

Bringing up the good news was the right choice for both of us, as I am already feeling the giddiness come inside of me. Oh Journal, I must describe this feeling to you through prose:

As Jean Knutty laid on his extremely chiseled abs, he giddily scribbled into his curvaceous journal while also masterfully kicking his feet in the air as if operating an invisible bicycle. He had the most gleeful expression on his face. This is evident in that the sides of his lips were curled upwards. A psychological sign that a human is happy.

I believe that description of myself was masterful. This will certainly aid in my journey into becoming Shakespeare’s incarnation.

Aside from my prose practice however, I am very happy. This is because she sat close to me today. You know who, Diary. My favorite female! I have noted her several times in you, Diary. It would be embarrassing if you forgot.

You should know by now, Journal, that I’m hinting at you to guess her name.

I’ll just tell you who. You never respond to anything I say. You are a terrible friend, and I do not know why I confide in you. I hate people like you that claim to be a great listener, because why would anyone speak to someone with nothing to say? You are a useless book full of TRASH!

Her name is NEVAEH. She has such a beautiful name. Did you know NEVAEH is actually heaven backwards? I have no idea what heaven is like, but if it’s that good backwards, I’m just going to go there.

As mentioned earlier, the maiden sat close to me today, during lunch. She sat her voluptuous posterior down at a table only a few yards away. I speak with total candor as I say this, Diary: I broke out into a cold sweat. However, I must tell you the specific reason for my perspiration. I had been crafting an eloquent love letter for months now, one that rivals the romantic letters of the late Cyrano de Bergerac. This was my chance to reveal my fervent dedication to Nevaeh. I got up from my chair and sashayed towards Nevaeh’s lunch to insert my letter into the crevices of Nevaeh’s trail mix. I assumed the mix was her dessert-– she eats so healthily, I must add — but fortunately for her, she did not need dessert today, as she had my nectarine words of passion. I say this because when I eat food with paper, I assume it is sullied, so I do not eat it. I suppose she thinks the same as me, because I did not see her touch her trail mix all lunch. However, she did read my letter, which I believe was a sufficient replacement for her meal. I will share my masterpiece with you, as I have memorized it by heart in case I would have to recite it to her face-to-face.

Dear Nevaeh,

How could anyone believe that they are the most disgusting, vile thing in the universe? That would be arrogant. I am no king of kings; I am an unholy rat king beneath sympathy. I willingly shackle myself to my flaws; as a hadean secretion, I cling because I have no other kingdom than yours.

Alas, if you had not taken me into your heart, your flight would not be bound to my boulder, your illumination not cancelled by my ragged drapes.

From Your Devoted Lover,

Jeanny

I have an excellent grasp on the woman psyche. Girls love when a usually assertive male displays sensitivity, so this technique of self-defecation displays my devotion to the female taste. I’m sure you can deduce that my efforts paid off today, but it would be favorable to display the moment which ensued after giving her the letter in prose:

Jean Knutty laid his signature hazel-Knutt eyes onto Nevaeh as if she were gilded with the touch of Midas as she read Knutty’s sonnet with wide eyes so as to not miss a vowel of her future-husband’s confession. Jean’s gaze softened as Nevaeh shifted her fragile face towards him and articulated a single Molotov to his heart.

“Thanks...”



“You’re welcome.” Jean thought. However, his tongue was too quick, and had already asked Nevaeh out to coffee, an offer which was ultimately declined; however, Nevaeh cited work as the reason for her denial, which means that even her heart yearns to tether itself to Jean’s.

Jean drew back with disappointment and said he understood. However, Jean understood that asking Nevaeh out to coffee would be asking too much from God this day, as he had already been blessed once with Nevaeh’s angelic praise.

Through this prose, you receive a clear picture of what I felt today. After Nevaeh declined my invitation, I finished my lunch. About my lunch: it was good.

That was the highlight of my day, so unfortunately, we will now discuss today’s “lowdark”. You know that fellow— let me be frank for a moment— that guy, Harold Truth? From ETW News? America’s fifty-SECOND most-watched news station? I know I mentioned him to you— we met at that violent collision at the snowboarding resort. Do I have to refresh your memory on THAT incident too, DIARY?!

I discovered that a novel by the guy had been placed on my desk after returning from a potty break. I didn’t see who left it, but do you believe what was in the contents of that book, Diary? It was a scathing exposé about me, including all of my personal information, stretched out to 237 pages! This will be devastating to my career, Journal! I know you’re just a book, but put yourself in a MASTER journalist’s Reeboks for a second!

This “exposé” does not even contain my correct personal information! It’s practically a tabloid article with all of the botched, out of context information it uses! He got my address wrong, and called me an IMMORAL JOURNALIST for using like, two cusses in my Little League article! Harold Truth isn’t a “watchdog” journalist, he’s a TABLOID RAT!

And to think, at our last meeting, I assumed we had bonded! I can’t condone this betrayal and devastation to my career. I have to retaliate! I will craft my OWN exposé that digs and PUSHES Harold Truth into a grave! And I know exactly where to start. Get ready for totally tubular, baby, because we’re going snowboarding.