Dead Diary

I hope my diary doesn’t have a diary of its own. I look under the little bed I made for my diary and I find a tiny little diary, full of entries like, “Today, Ben was as whiny as ever, as if I don’t have my own fucking problems. Lately I’ve been overwhelmed by the daunting realization that I might live out the rest of my pages without having once heard anything remotely uplifting.” I unplug my paper shredder whenever I leave the house just so that my diary doesn’t try to put itself out of my misery.