Dearest Diary:
Sometimes I feel like no one in the whole world understands me diary, except you. I swear my life reads like a bad romance novel, except minus the man with the bad Fabio hair. Rich might as well be a synonym for alone, I swear. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and my chandelier earrings have punctured my earlobes for the umpteenth time, there's blood all over my satin pillows, and I can't even remember my own maiden name.
Life is hard, diary. No one understands this. Everyone assumes that my grass is always the greenest, but the truth is, the fringes of my grass are beginning to brown. In no time, it'll be full blown jungle fever. I wish I enjoyed knitting or something, and that if I just knit a bunch of sweaters for orphans in Bratislava I'd feel really happy. Like fulfilled. I'm tired of my champagne glass being half full, diary, I really am.
