Dear Diary,

I’m hoping beyond hope that this will be a place where I can truly let go. My ink and paper diary is so careful. I’m haunted by the idea that someone will read it and be hurt by something, or worse (and more likely), repulsed by the rather mangled thing my soul can sometimes be.

I don’t give a damn what strangers think of me, so long as my loved ones stay in the dark.

It’s strange how my mind fluctuates between being convinced that I’m a horrible, evil human, and thinking that I’m ridiculously self-centered for thinking I’m of any importance at all. It’s like I’m constantly struggling between stereotypically self-centered teenager, and Yoda. I can’t help but think that things would be easier to understand, if I didn’t have this pesky self-hatred always taunting me. No matter what I think, it’s wrong, and I’m wrong for thinking it.

I often switch between thinking I’m crazy and thinking I’m making entirely too much out of typical adolescent thought patterns.

I think my biggest fear is being typical. Sub-par. Eh.

I’d rather be spectacularly horrible than spectacularly average.

I’m tired.