Copy a passage from your diary (T.B.H.) Others rate it like

I'll start

>Opening my pub today, it's called Italics and all the objects are at a slight angle

>David Bowie will never understand the pain I feel inside, the pain that comes from being intensely gorgeous and loved by millions of people from around the world. God I hate myself.

A man suffering from such a terrible disgrace could enjoy the pain, the sorrow. Because there is something extremely beautiful and sublime in these great tragedies. This man could rip his vests and crawl through the candles in a cemetery, crying heavy tears that get confused with the rainfall, mutilating his arms and back, shouting like a hurt animal. But if you look very closely, you will be able to see that in this chaotic play a subtle smiles begins to form.

>>9659353
nice, I laughed

>>9659400
too purple

Third graph from the first entry in my journal:

... This is all very ideological though. Looming over my shoulder in the bowels of Peru is a massive pile of debt acquired from what is both a tragedy and a suicide--not to be mistaken as both tragedies, the suicide was very selfish. And before even the acquisition of this debt was the squandering of the financial aid previously attained from when I first tried the junior college experience at the only institution in my area. I was nineteen at the time, and had a serious girlfriend which at the moment we were in our third year of being together. On top of that, the junior college was very much a joke. My first year of general educations, taken to get a taste for what might interest me, simply returned me down the halls of my highschool with some additional lighting, an extra classroom or two, and adults that weren't just teaching but learning as well. This place was not for me, I realized--it was for the wasted lives of Peru who finally understood a trade paid better than a factory; and the better pay for them meant finer booze and cartons instead of packs. Unfulfilled, unstimulated, and in love with a warm shell, I quickly failed out before the middle of my second year. My soul ached at this point. I did average in highschool because I was 'too smart' to simply follow rules, and my mother had no money to support a flunky. A fissure was slowly forming in myself born of hatred at my wasted time. To medicate this, my friends introduced me to marijuana. But all this emulsification may be retouched upon down the line...

Bumpity bumpity bum bum bum

>>9659212
I'm branded for life with my one past mistake: the mistake of having avoided, at all costs, the possibility of making a mistake, any mistake, that may have led to happiness. I'm taking risks now. Why is it so hard to understand why young people act carelessly? It's because living as I did, taking no risks, is a fate worse than death. Don't be stupid, sure. But at the age of eighty having lived a safe and secure life is not an achievement worth being proud of if in that life you never had reason to smile.

I wrote this when I was 18 lmayo

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From the wedding, I recall most distinctly the vows and seeing Gloria again. I will never forget the moment. She was standing alone at the bar by the candle. The first time in years. She demonstrated to me in that moment a tangible harmony in the universe. I will continue to find harmony in the ephemeral flashes of little moments.

When she told me how deeply I'd hurt her in the past, I wanted to dissolve. To have rejected her so harshly, to see her how she was and not how I wanted her to be. It all came back to me in a deluge, like after those seconds upon waking where your infant-like oneness is trampled on by all that is the case.

That night I saw no shortcomings in anyone but myself. In her, only beauty and grace.

We talked at the bar. She said, "I have cancer. It's pretty fucked." Then she ordered a drink. The bartender pretended not to hear and served someone else. She said, "please, Im so sick," and then she laughed.

She is dying soon. It's what her friends told me later on.

Later we danced, slowly gliding back and forth. "We probably won't see each other again," she whispered. I looked at her for as long as I could but was swiftly overwhelmed. I rushed outside into the rain and cried. Why did I ever hurt her. Why did I ever hurt a good person. Why do I ever hurt anybody.

We spoke outside later on. She asked for a cigarette. I said no, but she shamed me. She told me she had a boyfriend now, how great he is, how great he's been. She told me too that she loved me. She reminded me how much I hurt her.

The next day I toiled over a written apology. I told her the depth of my regret, the self-loathing that made me push her away so flippantly in high school. She replied "Thank you" but did not explicitly forgive me. Why would she. Why would I feel entitled to that?

>>9661577
dude that genuinely reads like fiction. i don't know if that's a good or a bad thing regarding your personality/life/attitude, but i like it.
the very last sentence reads a little out of place, i think i'd go with something like "how could i ask that of her?", something a little longer/more different from the sentence before

>>9659353
“Yeah but everyone is in love with me! Like Snape and Loopin took a video of me naked. Hargrid says he’s in love with me. Vampire likes me and now even Snaketail is in love with me! I just wanna be with you ok Draco! Why couldn’t Satan have made me less beautiful?” I shouted angrily. (an” don’t wory enoby isn’t a snob or anyfing but a lot of ppl hav told her shes pretty) “Im good at too many things! WHY CAN’T I JUST BE NORMAL? IT’S A FUCKING CURSE!” I shouted and then I ran away.”
― Tara Gilesbie, My Immortal

5/20
In the rain the architecture makes me think of grottos. The arched doorways make dry pockets free from rain while the constant sound and smell of rain surrounds and permeates. The stone and brick soak rain and change color, becoming dappled, darker, (what's the word for when something is absolutely full of something liquid? Like what a sponge becomes.) (Influxed, maybe?) Ah!!! Infused. The brick of buildings is infused with rainwater. Just when I think the thrill of rain has dulled, I'm intrigued all over by some new thing familiar now different. A car turns a corner slower than usual and unzips a waterfall spray in the gutter. Feeling much better today, John gave me some really good painkillers.

It is December again and I want to try and write again, even if I have to force myself by all means, write again to fill the empty days. I've learned that there is no escape in writing, no escape in general, escape from my mind and future, escape out of the new houses. That may be so but I have to follow the impulse that allows me to indulge in some sort of escapism. I would like to write something of more importance very much; but I detest the grey street where I live and the dirt in the curbs and the middle class delusion that people seem to mistake for purpose around here. What can be said about the qualities we possess? Without the expectations that have weighted me down there will be nothing left for my surroundings to latch onto, nothing left for me to fall back on. But I already know that it will be the same everywhere and nobody should ever care about the most weak or ugly or overlooked, people who bury their hopes at birth, most of it. It's no question of watching open-mouthed or casting my eyes down. Maybe there's only people who walk on air, people who never face left or right and only the silent shame of childhood and birth remains palpable. The beatings and ridicule are good enough for me, the old days in the class room with the drooping shutter and the glaring sunlight. I have no pity for the children who will be forced through school again and again but my former illusions and baseness have left me disgusted with myself. The truth is I find it hard to go on. Days fly by and I can recognize some green spots on the ground underneath all that dirt and meshed-up snow sometimes. Sometimes I'll stop and watch the sparrows and the chickadees and they're dull and quiet. I think I'll be dull and quiet too, for a while.

Dear Diary,
14 hours ago someone asked me to quote you.
I'm still not sure if I'm going to go through with or not.
Guess I'll update you later about the whole ordeal.

>>9661577
This is quite good for a diary entry. As said before, it reads like fiction. Nice, although a bit corny at places ("beauty and grace", etc).

There's water on the ceiling again.
Not much, but enough to be concerning. One of these days I imagine it's going to cave in and kill me while I'm asleep. With how I felt this morning, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Never drinking again (until Wednesday, cheap pints).

(Fwiw anons the landlord got the roof fixed and it doesn't get wet anymore, don't worry.)