Dear Diary!

            In all my nineteen years of existence I’ve kept a number of diaries. Homework diaries, dream journals, datebooks, this-is-how-I’m-feeling journals and I suppose… this thing is sort of a diary (not really but I’ll admit it kind of is a bit). So I thought I’d go all meta-diary on you and tell you all about my experiences as a diarist. [totes got inspired by this b.t.w]

            When I was a small and impressionable I thought keeping a diary was the height of sophistication. Because:

a) all of my favourite American tween starlets were always pictured lying on their bed with some huge tome laid out flat in front of them, twiddling with a (usually pink and/or fluffy) pen.

b) some of the best books everrrrrrr are in diary form- Anne Frank, The Princess Diaries and what is perhaps the pinnacle of human literary achievement- Adrian Mole.

c) I did a project on Samuel Pepys at school once and he TOTES got famous from writing a diary and what self-respecting eleven year old doesn’t want to get famuzzzz.

But when I was rifling through my desk drawers the other day I came across a few of them- and I’ve come to a realisation that I am a dreadful diarist, like… really, really bad. I’m not even going to prove it by copying out an entry or two. Because well.. they are MORTIFYING. And I’d start a diary, keep it for maybe a week, then forget about it- and this cycle would just go on and on, so I have maybe ten or eleven brief diaries, all of which start with some LIFE CHANGING DILEMMA (read: omg I relly fanci a boy! Hes so gorgus! Or: omg my parents r the worst everrrrrrr! Or: I am so depresst, I didnt get my homework diary sined so miss put me in detenshun.)

SO. HORRIBLE.

Thankfully I grew out of this/got addicted to Bebo, so it all went away.

But guess what guys, my tormented inner child has duped me into buying a ridiculously expensive filofax. The dire diarist is back!!!!!!!! I only bought it to use for writing appointments in, but the leathery scent of its red alligator cover and the crisp paper of its creamy innards have me itching to fill it with my putridly middle-class hopes and fears.

NOTE: I didn't take this annoying mock-polaroid bullshit photo, just none of the other pictures in my search result managed to capture its true beauty.

I disgust myself.

p.s for like 2 weeks before I finally caved and bought it I pored over this website for hours on end. It totally fetishizes (fetishises?) the art of filofaxing and I admit it made me a bit tingly tingly. HOT.

Luv Dolly

xx