My friend Patricia is whining about me not mentioning her in any posts. (It’s not even true. I have mentioned her.) She means that since I’m writing a diary I should point out when I’ve met up with her, what we did etc.

Hang on there for a minute…say what???

Diary? Who’s writing a diary? Certainly not me! I remember clearly that when I was nine it was standard procedure to hide your diary under your bed (because there nobody would ever be able to find it) so if I was still writing one today, there’s probably where it would be! And nobody would ever be able to find it! (Because it’s quite messy under there.) You can hide it wherever you want, really, but posting it on the net seems to go against all the rules I was ever told back then, as a nine year old!

And I don’t want to write about everything I do and everyone I see anyway, because it would soon feel like nothing more than a necessity. It would turn into a mere report and I wouldn’t feel motivated anymore. And that’s the last thing that I want. I’ve tried to write diaries at home and never managed to keep it up. But this was never meant to become one in the first place. I mean, sure, it’s hard not to mention stuff that you’ve done, but I don’t want it to be in a compulsive, chronological kind of way. That’s dull.

But Patricia went on:

-“Look, you said you were going to post a poem about your plant! I’m your friend. Don’t you love me more than your plant?!?”

Well…that’s a pretty special plant.

But either way, it wasn’t a poem about a plant. It was about a duck. And it wasn’t even my duck. It wasn’t even my poem! It was written by some guy in the ferry terminal in Cowes in the Isle of Wight! Jesus!!!

But you’re right about me wanting to post it. Damn good poem that was. Literature at its best.

So to some stuff that IS interesting to write about…
…my foot hurts! Really hurts. Still! From my walk the other day. I don’t understand what I’ve done. I must have stretched it somehow (without noticing) because it…still…hurts!
Well, that’s pretty much all, really… Very important news are sometimes best left without too much elaboration so that you’re allowed to reflect upon it liberally yourself. Let it sink in properly without too much interference. For as long as you feel appropriate. And if you start feeling sorry for me and getting sudden urges to start sending me flowers and chocolate, then I just want to say that I don’t have a problem with that at all.