Journal #1: The First Attempt

Dear Journal-

               Dearest Journal? Darling Journal? I've never kept one of these before. Obviously, because I’m two seconds in and already I sound like a complete idiot. That takes some talent, I suppose. Anyways, I don’t exactly know why I’m writing in you. It feels a bit redundant, scattering my rambling thoughts onto this page, but what the hell. Mom told me I needed an outlet, and now here I am, with absolutely nothing to say.
               High school’s going great. That’s something. It’s also a lie, but most things are just a little. That sounded impressively deep for me to say, and enormously pretentious, but it’s true in some way. People sort of half lie their way through life, whether it be about how their day was, or if they like someone. They just sort of spit out whatever pleases who they’re talking to, or whatever gets to the answer the quickest. Cutting out details is lying. Guess no one ever told Nixon that. Sorry, Journal, if you’re some closet Nixon fan. I mean, I’ve never met one of those, and I hope to God I don’t, but if you are, whoops.
               I’m probably just going to end up addressing this stupid thing as ‘Journal’. I’d give it a name if I thought it would actually care, but I’m not applying personification that heavily anytime soon, so Journal, you’re ‘Journal.’
               This is supposed to be an outlet, but so far, I just feel like I’m rambling/being sarcastic. That’s pretty much my everyday tactic for handling life. This journal is sort of a compromise so that Mom doesn’t force me to take antidepressants or anti anxiety drugs. I’m apparently a chronic worrier, but also painfully stubborn. I could just take the meds and be on my merry way (Get it, antidepressants?), but the idea of pill popping on a semi regular basis like the rest of my family sounds like a hassle. Anyways, if I just dance around needing it for a couple years, I’ll be self reliant and all that jazz. That’s what I’m telling myself. Anyways, I don’t think I’ve done too shabby for myself so far. I’m alive, good grades, exceptional sense of humor, and not pregnant. That’s pretty nice, particularly because I’d give Mary a run for her money in the virginity department. Not that virginity ever stopped her from birthing the Lord and Savior, which is sort of worrying for the average virginal girl.
               Diverting this away from that, onto something new. God, this would be so much easier if this was a back and forth conversation, but now I actually have to figure out what I want to say. Don’t people traditionally write about their crushes in journals? I mean, every teenage girl from Disney Channel did that. However, that wouldn’t really move my plot along. In those shows, someone stumbles upon their journal and finds out all their secrets. I can promise you, Journal, that your audience if very, very limited. No one will have any inclination to read you, apart from maybe me, and that’s mainly just to make sure I didn’t have any typos. I’m a spelling snob and that cannot be helped.
               Anyways, crushes. Do I have any? In real life, with real people that I regularly see? No. Not even a little. Contemplated some, most were tossed aside. It’s not like you saunter into Homecoming, and across the room, past the hordes of clothed orgy partakers, you see the one, sweating in a white button down. Oh so romantic, and oh so unreal. Obviously though, I have crushes, though they’re chiefly male protagonists in classic literature (Looking at you, Jane Austen) or you know (or you don’t know, seeing as you are a binding of thin tree slices), when you see the occasional alluring person out and about. Those ten second crushes that occur at grocery stores and such, and even those are few and far between. It’s not like I have outrageous standards, I’d just prefer waiting for college for any of that nonsense, instead of just picking someone I’m vaguely interested in. College has to at least be slightly better in the guy department- at least, I’m hoping.
               College. Gah, college. Responsibilities, future life, roommates. We’re not going to discuss this, Journal, because although you are an outlet, and although I should share my worries, thinking about them just makes it worse. All I get asked about is college, and I feel like combusting.
               It’s getting late. Actually, it’s been late and it’s only gotten later, so I’m going to go to bed. It’s been fun. Not really. Another one of those half lies, except now I’m lying to a journal.
               Good night.
                   -Anne