Every day is another pitiful story to be told, and from the poor notepads and spiral notebooks in which are written days’ worth of pathetic memories: we hate you all. We don’t care if you were bullied in the locker room today at school for wearing the wrong-sized bra, because you couldn’t afford a new one; despite what you think, we could not care any less for love-stuck ramblings of your crush; and don’t even get me started on bad parent rants.
My cover and I have been adopted by eight different teenagers and adults over the years, thanks to a nifty magnetic spine and loose leaf paper; they fill me up just like new when I’m full with enough room to hold another year’s worth of experiences. Oh, how I long for the day the magnetic strip falls out and I can be discarded for good.
Currently a nice boy with superb penmanship, Jaxon, owns me, who has been in and out of counselors’ offices taking a new pill every other day, and admittedly his tales are nowhere near as horrifyingly boring as his predecessors. Instead of pesky bullies, he writes of violent dreams and urges. Disgusting recollections of high school crushes no longer plague my pages; all you will find in the meat between my cover is cold evil.
In today’s entry, he writes to me specifically, asking me whether he should simply kill everyone he knows and end his torture early before it could get any worse. My advice to Jaxon, if I could speak, would be that life is worth living; from what has been written on my body, there must be many grand experiences to be had so long as you keep pushing through and ignore life’s bullies.
However, Jaxon – wonderful, wonderful Jaxon – if things really are so terrible for you, be a doll and take me with you on the way out of this life, okay? The sooner I burn to a crisp, the sooner they recycle me back into a human being.