OCTOBER 1ST, 2033
Dear Diary Hello, Journal.
I apologize for your empty pages. I've never really seen the need to write in you before. It's always seemed a bit stupid to put your deepest thoughts in such an easily reachable place. I'll hide you well, I suppose.
I've been staring at this page for a while. I don't know where to begin. Nurse Delangelo Wright told me to write here. I don't really know if a nurse has the ability to suggest that, but when I voiced this thought she threatened to smash me in the head with you, Journal. I told her that seemed a bit counterproductive for a nurse, but she was having none of it.
Okay. Right. That aside, I suppose I'll put down a little about myself, so you know where I'm coming from here.
I was born in ever exciting Portland, Maine. (If you couldn't pick up my sarcasm I question your intelligence. No, I question my own. I'm talking to a book. This is dumb.)
My mother, birthgiver, Wilona, whatever. I lived with her all my life, in a crappy double wide that I had to clean, because she refused to. My mom made jewelry and made a living off of that, but when it wasn't enough, I had to work around town, doing small jobs. My mother is a little bit if a nutcase, a complete hippie type, and by the age of 12, I was taking care of her more than she was taking care of me. I blame my father's absent for the weird way she is, because I remember a time when she was a normal mother, and not the clingy, ditzy joke of a mother she is now. Sorry, was that mean? I still love her, I guess. Even if love is stupid.
Wilona is an excellent example of that. She was so totally in love with my dad, that when he left one day for no reason (I'm still a bit upset about that), she became the weirdo she is now.
I remember my dad. Kind of. A faint memory of him lifting me up with his huge hands (I was pretty small then, mind you) and hugging me tightly. He said he had to go, and he 'would be back soon, Kimply, don't worry.'
Even after 10 years I still hold on to that. Love is stupid.
My hand hurts. My head hurts. What did Nurse Delangelo Wright mean by writing helps? It just makes me think about things I don't want to think about. I came here to get away from that, and to solve my problems. I don't feel like writing anymore today, Journal. Besides, I have to go check on Ethan now. Perhaps I'll tell you about him later. I don't really want to think about him either, though.
