Entry #2, Why am I writing a diary?
I want to write about the man who allowed me to stay in his apartment when I first came to this city. But before I do that, I have to tell you why I’m writing a diary, or journal, or memoir, or whatever fucking name you want to call it.
Oops. I swear again, didn’t I? I am told to stop doing that. To be more polite.
Fuck! Can you be more polite if life treats you badly? Can you be more polite if you are being treated like shit? Can you be more polite if the cashier at the supermarket counter is rude to you just because you have bigger boobs than her? Hell, no! How can I be more polite if my life sucks?
“But you have to. You have to try.” That’s what my flatmate says.
I won’t be revealing any names here. So I don’t have to, like, go about saying the names and places, if resemble someone either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Blah, blah, blah. What a whole load or crap. But I have to follow the editorial guidelines. What guideline? Fuck the editor. I write what I want to write, the way I want to write. If my memoir doesn’t get published, fuck it. Who cares?
Actually, I do. It helps pay the bill. My flatmate says I have a wealth of experience – ha! What a phrase to use. Wealth. If I am so wealthy, where is my Gucci, or LV, or BMW, or Rolex, or Tiffany?
My flatmate (I’ll talk about him in a future entry) says I should start writing about my experiences, about my opinions, about what I feel about life.
It helps pay the bills. That sort of convince me.
It is also therapeutic. I don’t know about that, but after my first entry yesterday, I kinda feel better. Slightly. But life still sucks.
So here I am, telling the world about my life misadventures, as if the world would want to know how my life sucks, how many men I have slept with, how many men who have broken my heart, how I crave for Prince Charming to sweep me into his strong arms and ride into sunset.
But the editor (I may write about her in future, if she allows. I doubt so. She’s so bitchy) like my views about life. She says I have a voice that some readers would find interesting.
So why not? I would be getting paid. Maybe getting laid in the process too. I would be sampling free food, test new products, and may even get the handbags and shoes and dresses for free.
So why not? Maybe life doesn’t suck so much after all.