Besides maintaining a blog, I also keep a diary. Diary or
Journal? Which is it? ‘Journal’ makes you sound sophisticated and hip while ‘diary’
makes you sound like some girl fudging together lengthy descriptions of her
first period in a flower-patterned
notebook with a cruddy golden lock.

Of course some girls don’t even remember their first period,
right Shelly?

Anyway, I’ve always
had my inhibitions with regards to keeping a journal, or even a blog for that
matter. For one, even if you don’t immediately post an entry on the internet,
you know that someone will read it eventually. With regards to a diary, you can turn the key
on that little heart shaped lock, hide it in a chest, or hide it between the
mattress and take comfort in knowing that despite all your efforts to safeguard
your secrets, someone will eventually get their sooty little mitts on it and
read it. Your journal is a secret until you leave town for a vacation and your
mom, dad, brothers or sisters sit down and laugh themselves dead reading it.

Well this sort of
thing might not happen immediately, but when you die, several years down the
road someone is going to find it. It’ll tumble out from underneath your now
antiquated mattress as your next of kin pillage and loot the prized possessions
you left behind. And after they laugh themselves dead reading it, they’ll take
it to a publisher and it’ll sweep the world like wildfire. Before you know it,
you’re bigger than Anne fucking Frank.

The Amazon
editorial review would read: “His
exquisitely detailed, heart warming personal entries gives the reader an account of over twenty years of battling
halitosis, excessive masturbation, and an improperly intimate relationship with
a hairy truck driver named Sergio who somehow, finds Michael’s eloquent
profanity sexy. Hands down, the best book of the century!”