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Dear Journal,
I am very sorry that people have found it necessary to violate you in their quest to know more about me. I am also sorry that I can't really be mad about it because even though it's something I would not have done, I'd be a hypocrite if I was too angry. As far as I've always been concerned, the internet was for close friends and complete strangers. Close friends need to know what I think. Complete strangers can be amused by my mundane babbling. People I don't know that well for whatever reason don't need to know exactly what I think. Don't need to comb my journal for what I think about them. I'm not going to mention any names. I'm not even going to imply anyone. Nor will there be a snide comment in parenthesis telling you exactly who I mean this time. I give up. Yes, I do feel violated. Especially since, when people here discovered I had a journal, I told them "if you can even find it, please don't read it." Which is a wimpy sort of thing to say, but I hoped that some people would have a little bit more respect for me than this.
So, my friend, I hate to say that I won't be telling you all the mundane amusing details of my life anymore. I don't quite know what I'm going to do with you, since I am paying for you and I am still extremely fond of you. I hate that I'm probably going to end up breaking my New Year's resolution to write more, too. I guess my crap's all going to have to go into my little green notebook now. Of course, if someone really wanted to they could steal that, but I'd probably notice. I think maybe I'll just turn this into one of those silly literary journals. Amuse myself. Of course, this means that there will be very few entries, which is sort of sad for my friends back home that do read this on occasion, because now we'll have like, millions of times more catching up to do before we can just go off and have fun when I get back. It sucks, sorry. When you come to visit, there are a few people you can beat up, I suppose. But I won't tell you who they are.
-An Angry Frustrated Violated Insulted and Still Evil Hippo
P.S. I have a headache and I'm miserable, but I had to sit down and write this now so I wouldn't be all mad and awkward and spoil my roomie's birthday dinner by being sulky. Sorry. I guess I'll figure out what to do with this later, but you can be sure there won't be many more entries here anymore. Unless I get back into my novel or something. I'd feel much more comfortable about others reading that every day. Sigh. Oh well, we shan't beat a dead horse any longer. Bye!
I am very sorry that people have found it necessary to violate you in their quest to know more about me. I am also sorry that I can't really be mad about it because even though it's something I would not have done, I'd be a hypocrite if I was too angry. As far as I've always been concerned, the internet was for close friends and complete strangers. Close friends need to know what I think. Complete strangers can be amused by my mundane babbling. People I don't know that well for whatever reason don't need to know exactly what I think. Don't need to comb my journal for what I think about them. I'm not going to mention any names. I'm not even going to imply anyone. Nor will there be a snide comment in parenthesis telling you exactly who I mean this time. I give up. Yes, I do feel violated. Especially since, when people here discovered I had a journal, I told them "if you can even find it, please don't read it." Which is a wimpy sort of thing to say, but I hoped that some people would have a little bit more respect for me than this.
So, my friend, I hate to say that I won't be telling you all the mundane amusing details of my life anymore. I don't quite know what I'm going to do with you, since I am paying for you and I am still extremely fond of you. I hate that I'm probably going to end up breaking my New Year's resolution to write more, too. I guess my crap's all going to have to go into my little green notebook now. Of course, if someone really wanted to they could steal that, but I'd probably notice. I think maybe I'll just turn this into one of those silly literary journals. Amuse myself. Of course, this means that there will be very few entries, which is sort of sad for my friends back home that do read this on occasion, because now we'll have like, millions of times more catching up to do before we can just go off and have fun when I get back. It sucks, sorry. When you come to visit, there are a few people you can beat up, I suppose. But I won't tell you who they are.
-An Angry Frustrated Violated Insulted and Still Evil Hippo
P.S. I have a headache and I'm miserable, but I had to sit down and write this now so I wouldn't be all mad and awkward and spoil my roomie's birthday dinner by being sulky. Sorry. I guess I'll figure out what to do with this later, but you can be sure there won't be many more entries here anymore. Unless I get back into my novel or something. I'd feel much more comfortable about others reading that every day. Sigh. Oh well, we shan't beat a dead horse any longer. Bye!
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