The Perfect Girl Diaries - January 1

In the Beginning

January 1, 2014

“Dear Diary”.

How many people actually begin a diary with those two words? Is it a cliché if there’s really no other way to begin speaking to your own subconscious through the magic of paper and pen? I think it would be too odd- maybe even too formal- to address you by some name, like Bob. I’ve heard from my friends from the school’s literature magazine that whilst writing a diary, you’ll be learning more about yourself with every chapter added. Could this be true? Or is it a mere form of schizophrenia, embodying the second personality within a book of soon-to-be old memories, like a photo album?

I guess I want to start with this point: I want to speak to you as if you were a stranger looking for a new friendship. You know how we sometimes become friends with a stranger in a small mart or gas station for the mere fact that they just so happened to be looking at the candy section at the very same instance you were? That’s what I want with you, my newly acquired friend. A stranger that is slowly learning more about me; even though I’m really unveiling “meself” to myself.

Got me?

Of course I do.

- - -

After a moment of taking time to think of how to tell you my tale, I think I’ve formed a faint sketch of this maze in my head, hoping to lead me, myself, and I to the detailings of my feelings I’m having at the moment. If I ever stop to think during a diary entry, I’ll just use three of those “-” things simultaneously. I don’t know exactly what they are called, but, here in Virginia, we tend to call them “dashes”- “dash” when it’s singular. I promise you (or me, I’m not truly confident in which I’d rather say at this point in time) I’ll take the time out to ask Mr. Farrel, my old Junior High English teacher. I recently found him on Facebook, so it won’t take too long to recover an answer.

Anyway, here we go.

“One small step for man,” am I right?

- - -

The reason I’ve begun my very first diary entry on the first day of the brand new year is for mere symbolism to help me psychologically. The symbol of a “new year” is a new beginning. It’s as if we have hit the refresh button on life, without losing our individual history. You see, I have floated in a depression since early November. The day before my birthday, which is the seventh, the girl I had been dating for nearly three years left me altogether. I met her in December of 2010. Her name was Brianna. I had met this girl through a dating website for teenagers. We spoke for about three days nonstop, messaging each other the very instant we received a reply from the other. It was another old cliché; the one where people say they just “clicked”, as if they were power circuits. I used to not believe in that type of thing. I simply couldn’t comprehend the idea that we just fall for another person within first glance, but, dear God, was I wrong. I was bitten by a f*****g cupid bug to the point where I struggled to function when she wasn’t able to talk. Like all teenage couples, we fought very often. The biggest issue with relationships, if you ask me and want a truthful answer, is that- over time, no matter how lengthy- couples develop problems with each other that were never there, at the beginning of the relationship. I can’t help but think of the irony of Adam and Eve, you know? What happened to the world? Why does it seem like the two genders that were crafted by the same Craftsman are at war these days? Are we seriously that weak, as a species?

I’m sorry to continuously fire questions at you, my new friend. You’re a book (or a subconscious), so you really don’t have a way to respond, even if you knew what to say.

Anyways, I’ll continue my story.

Brianna and I never met in person. Like all long-distance relationships, we promised it would never intrude, but- like almost every single long-distance relationship in the history of mankind- that very important promise became an abandoned bicycle sitting in an open forest; over time, those sprinklings of rain and collections of dust and pollen and cobwebs develop and fester amongst the skin of that object that was, at one time, a brand new, shiny object someone (maybe even more than one person, if speaking of something extremely special) cherished. That promise became a pile of rust. Not only that, but that bicycle of ours surely became abandoned over three year’s passing.

She lost interest in me.

She lost interest in the fact that I wasn’t nearby.

Friend, have you ever been told by someone you’ve loved for so very long that they simply don’t love you anymore? No? It hurts more than anyone could understand. The first thing that tends to pop into your head is that something is wrong with you, not the other person. You worry that maybe you’ve gained weight over the time you have been dating, or that you said something so harsh that that lover of yours doesn’t want to (dare I phrase it this way?) “put up” with you any longer. Not only does it hit someone as a physical insult, the person being insulted begins to look internally for the problem that is making their lover venture away. Sometimes we look deep into our hearts, can’t find the problem, and begin to have the desire to delve deeper. When we hit that point, we have those nights where we lay in the dark, in our beds, seemingly staring at the wall whilst actually staring into that abyss called the soul. Like the old saying, the abyss looks right back into your eyes. I believe that the abyss eventually loses interest in us in these segments of stare-downs and shrugs, only to let us go ahead and look at the details of its odd figure. What hurts the most is the fact that some people don’t even know that the abyss- the soul- is there, just waiting to be recognized, then analyzed. Not only does it want to be noticed and nurtured, I feel that God wants us to find it.

- - -

Sorry for the break, friend. I needed some time to think about where I wanted to go with the rest of this entry.

Me being a writer, it’s one of those complexes we writers tend to get; How much do I really want to show them right now? is the thought we all process. I always like to think of it like this: A good magician never reveals his secrets, just like a writer never reveals the entire story at once.

We all have our secrets.

I like my secrets, as all writers do.

With that said, I think I have just inspired myself to leave this entry, only to return tomorrow with another tale of my heartbreak, my heartache, and my sorrow.

These pages are like a mop for the heart, you know?

I remember when I was in high school, less than eight months ago, and would hear about how my friends hated to read and couldn’t begin to fathom why I found such Heaven within it. I feel like my friends never truly tried to read. School has proven to me that teenagers tend to hate scribblings from Shakespeare and Dickens. However, these teens being forced to read those two legends makes them believe that all writers suck. I’d guarantee you that there is something out there for all people to read, whether it be the newest Stephen King novel, the first Shakespeare play, or a mere article of abolishment towards some celebrity everyone loves to hate and hates to love. If I were a gambling man, I’d bet you that every teenager on the planet would become a writer if they were exposed to the book that hits them in just the right spot at just the right time. And then those people would have their very own mops for their very own hearts.

Good day and good night, my new friend.

- Blake

Author's Note

This is the first chapter of a story I began and never finished. I hope to finish it up sometime.

Reviews

[Josiah Morgan]

Oh my god, this really reminds me of 'An Open Letter to Another Dead Soul', the one I'm working on at the moment! This was seriously entertaining, though!!!! And I really love the characters you've drawn so far here haha. It's pretty great!