I met a very intelligent old man this weekend. A doctor of history and latin, this man was pretty much a walking encyclopedia. I spent much of the weekend learning about all types of stuff that I won’t remember, but was cool in the moment. Dr. SmartyPants was good in my book, until he looked at me and let the most offensive sentence cascade out of his mouth. I was sitting on the couch, minding my business, writing.
“Oh, I see you’re writing in your diary there.”
*record comes to a screeching halt*
I don’t think I’ve given an eye as evil as the one that little Mr. I Know Everything About Everything recieved in that moment. This look was followed by an icy “This is Not a diary. I don’t have a diary.” What I really wanted to say:
Bruh, I’m 25 years old, and I write. I write everything. Notes, plans, thoughts. I write everywhere. Any paper at any time that I have words that need to be written will work for me. I prefer a notebook. I am currently writing in a notebook. This notebook is not pink, or purple or decorated with some freakishly feminine design. This book that I’m writing in does not have a little lock, nor do I need a key to access the pages. I’m a grown ass woman. I do not have a diary. Fall back.
I write. It’s what I do, and a big part of who I am. It keeps me organized. It has kept me sane at times. It has prevented more bad decisions than I can count. It has assisted in the birth of ideas. I do not have a diary. I have a little extensions of myself.