Dear Diary

I never thought much about the difference between a diary and a journal. Perhaps because I’m always in conversation with myself so the sort of daily tallying of facts and deeper explorations of myself and my feelings went hand in hand.

But lately, when I write to myself, I’ve gotten in the habit of writing “Dear Diary,” and it — refreshingly — allows my days to be mundane.

There are things I want to remember (looking into getting my apartment professionally cleaned as a birthday present to myself) and the little whispers that lead to revelations like “I want a new narrative for my life.”

Sometimes, I get sick of myself and don’t want to examine anything at all. I’ll blame that on the public journaling I consume 24/7 on social media. Like, we’re all in our heads too much and would do better to live our lives more than we examine them. And my head is noisy — full of ideas so absurd, I don’t want to own them because they sound like the stupid shit I see in memes all day and fuck me, I don’t want to be that dull.

That’s a bad way to think of thoughts.

Better to get it out and be done with it than hold it in and feed the Loud Bitch in My Head Who Really Can’t Stand Me.

Published by

a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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