Love, April

Dear Diary,

I swear that someday I’ll stop starting every entry that way, really. There’s something familiar and safe about it, though, so maybe I’ll just keep saying that I’ll swear I’ll stop, but I won’t actually stop.

The ‘writing each thought as it comes’ is still a nervous habit. Yay.

Writing in this makes me feel like I should be putting my name and his in a heart with ‘4VR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ underneath it, in hot pink gel pen, and talking about the latest gossip.

It’s humbling, maybe? This feeling like I’m a twelve year old in Barbie’s body.

I really want to hate her. I want to hate her and tell him he can never see her again, isn’t allowed near her, and that I’d love it if he actually told her something that would hurt her so much that she ran away and never came back.

How childish and petty is that?

She’s such a sweet girl, all young and innocent and tiny — I feel like an Amazon freak next to her. She’s delicate and gorgeous, and it’s no wonder that he wants her. Wanted her.

Whatever. They’re best friends — I’m sure that a couple drunken nights of sex actually fucked things up between them. Maybe I won’t have to worry about her at all and if I just play nice, he’ll distance himself without me needing to push.

I don’t want to have to lie about it, but it’s not like there’s a girl in the world who’d actually be all right with this. No one’s that selfless at heart. Maybe we can play it, and behave that way… but underneath, we’re all just the same kind of snuggly barracuda.

And if she isn’t yet, after a few more years of shit like this, she will be.

More later.

Love,
April

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