So you’re probably curious about the title of my diary, aren’t you? Well, tough, sweetheart, for I don’t feel like telling about it yet.
What I do feel like telling about is my hair.
Seems frivolous, don’t it? Well maybe I’m frivolous, deep down inside. Maybe everyone is. Maybe under all that ‘depth’, we are all just simple creatures with large egos thinking we are much more than we are. Who knows? Anything’s possible, right?
Anyway, back to my hair. If you even bothered to read the information, it is blonde. Quite an odd color, blonde. Why people don’t ever call it just plain old yellow I never understood as a child. They call brunettes brown often enough, why not call blondes yellow? Neither color has very good symbolic meaning, being dirt and cowardliness. Guess dirt could be seen as fertile and helpful to the earth but that’s about it.
It’s kind of short, my hair. Not pixie cut short, for knowing how gosh darn adorable I am and my love of green people would mistake me for Tinkerbelle, but I digress. It’s also very fine and soft, which will one day probably please any foolish man I hook or poor but loved children I ever have. They would probably spend long minutes playing with my soft hair, petting it, until they became preoccupied with something else. Oh, how I would love to picture them. I like to picture them as brunettes. Earthy , happy, helpful, brown.
I’m about to go to a New Year’s party with people I sometimes want to kill. How pleasant. I do love them, naturally, but sometimes, you know, I can’t help but picture knocking their thick skulls off their bodies with a dull shovel. It’s how love works sometimes.
Not true love though. That’s just perfect.
Well, of course, it would be even more perfect if I believed in it. But I'll get into that another time.
I must depart you, Diary. Off to the Party of shovel murders. Or joy. Not sure which yet.
Goodnight!
Love,
Grace
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