Dear Diary

  By Holly Day

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2022 Holly Day

  ISBN 9781685502331

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Thank you to Gabi Cervenka and Leonie Duncan! You are the best.

  Dear Diary was written for Dear Diary Day, which is celebrated on September 22nd. Diaries help us process our thoughts and document our lives. And while the first known use of the word diary was in 1605, Emperor Marcus Aurelius kept a diary in Greek as early as 200 A.D.

  * * * *

  Dear Diary

  By Holly Day

  Thursday, September 8th

  Dear Diary,

  The therapist is a cunt, and I spent $9.95 on you. There was one journal for $8.95, but it had flowers on the cover. I’m not a flower kind of guy, or maybe I am, but it was red. I’m not a red diary kind of guy.

  Okay, here goes. According to the cunt, I’m depressed. Surprise, surprise. It doesn’t mean I’m insane, it’s only my brain screaming for a timeout. It looked like she believed herself when she was talking. I know better. I’ve gone insane. Christopher has turned me into a crazy person.

  Dramatic? I hate that the voice in my head sounds like Christopher.

  Okay, so I’m depressed—is it like being an alcoholic and saying it out loud is part of accepting it will make it easier to get over? It doesn’t matter. Since I’m depressed, I have to write three positive things every day. Homework from a therapist. Can life get any worse?

  It can. I know. You don’t have to inform me.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My lunch coffee was okay.

  3. My walking-home-from-work caramel latte was okay.

  * * * *

  Friday, September 9th

  Dear Diary,

  You suck. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but I got sidetracked by the money I spent on you. You were not in my budget.

  I don’t have a budget.

  I should have a budget.

  Today, there was a meeting with the dickhead, that’s my boss in case you’ve yet to learn how to read my mind, and he’s still a dickhead. He talked about how important it is we keep a positive attitude at work. I bet you tomorrow’s caramel latte it was me he was talking about. No one was looking at me, of course. I’m the crazy person. The one who sneaks off to the bathroom for some alone time. I don’t know how they have the energy to be at their desks all day.

  I have two words for you: data entry.

  The most annoyingly positive person would be suicidal after two days—I’ve been there for six fucking months. I deserve an award.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My lunch coffee was okay.

  3. My walking-home-from-work caramel latte was okay.

  * * * *

  Saturday, September 10th

  Dear Diary,

  Who came up with the idea of beginning an entry by addressing a notebook? I don’t have the energy to write today.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2.

  3.

  * * * *

  Monday, September 12th

  Dear Diary,

  Remember Lars Olsen from school? Damn, he looks good now he’s grown into those arms, so good I forgot to stop walking once I spotted him. Yup. I walked right into him, spilled my walking-home-from-work caramel latte all over his chest. He only screamed for a few seconds. Not embarrassing at all. I swear. I wished for lightning to strike right then and there.

  It was a clear blue sky.

  Aliens would’ve worked too. They could’ve beamed me up, and I would have gone willingly. It would’ve been a rescue mission, after all. Everyone knows I don’t belong in this world.

  Fuck, I suck. Why do I always do things like this?

  Anyway, Lars claimed to be okay, and the once-white T-shirt clung nicely to his abs. When the hell did Lars get abs? Why don’t I have abs? Well, I know the answer: caramel lattes and a fetish for moving as little as possible. Now, now, no need to be insulting.

  Still, though…Abs would’ve been nice. I’m aware of having abs, thank you for reminding me, you fucking know-it-all, but they’re buried under a soft layer.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My lunch coffee was okay.

  3. Lars Olsen’s abs—I’d forgotten how much I love looking at abs.

  * * * *

  Tuesday, September 13th

  Dear Diary,

  I think Lars works at the gym across from work. Either he was working or he was feeling some woman up while showing her how the torture device closest to the window works.

  He was wearing black today, which is the smarter choice. You never know when some idiot will pour their coffee all over you, at least black disguises some of it. Sigh.

  I think he saw me. He waved, but I pretended I couldn’t see due to the sun reflecting on the window.

  It was raining.

  Of course, it was raining. There I was, looking like a drowned cat, and he was smiling. Had I been sane, I would have waved back, but I’m not sane, and Lars deserves someone more…More is a good word. He deserves someone who is more.

  I was late to see the cunt, seven minutes, but she acted as if I wasn’t. I wish I was a smoker, then I would have stood in the rain and smoked instead of walking in. I hate her office. It smells of citrus.

  She insists I call her Janet.

  She wanted to know how I found writing a diary, and I told her I was the next Anne Frank. Then I apologized because my God! How can I say things like that? So stupid! Anne Frank was hiding from the fucking Nazis. All I did was being spotted while hiding in the bathroom at work. Okay, they found me crying in the bathroom.

  I can’t remember why I was crying, but it was nothing in comparison to the Nazis. No one will find this diary, print it, and be horrified about the way I’m treated. I bet Janet would’ve stopped reading by now.

  They still whisper when I walk into the staff room, the bitches at work, not the Nazis. I’m sure it’s me they’re whispering about. Erin has always been a gossip, but Janet said I shouldn’t assume. Easy for her to say.

  I asked the dickhead how long I had to keep seeing Janet. He wants me to go until I am well again. Well? Is anybody well? Was I well before I knocked my coffee cup over and soaked the notes I was processing and had a breakdown in the restroom? No.

  This fucking world…

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My walking-to-Janet’s-office caramel latte was nice.

  3. Lars waving through the window.

  * * * *

  Wednesday, September 14th

  Dear Diary,

  Lars is a stalker! I swear. He was waiting for me when I exited work today. At first, I believed he wanted me to apologize for baptizing him in sweet sticky coffee, but then he blushed. How often do you see a thirty-six-year-old man blush?

  He wondered if I wanted to go out for coffee some night. When I hesitated, he asked if he could borrow my phone. I handed it over, and he used it to add his number to my contacts. Then he called it, winked, and said he’d text me later. He had to get back because he was having a class. I think he meant he was teaching a class. Is it still called teaching when it’s aerobics or whatever?

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My lunch coffee was okay.

  3. Lars winking.

  No sane man winks, do they? I think it’s a sign Lars is insane, which would be for the better. No sane man should be texting me.

  * * * *

  Thursday, September 15th

  Dear Diary,

  The dickhead suggested we’d all go out for drinks tomorrow night. As a morale boost. For fuck’s sake! I have to spend eight hours with those idiots. No way in hell am I going out for a drink with them after work. I didn’t tell them, though. They looked so fucking pleased, as if they’d come up with the solution. Give a guy a drink, and he won’t be crying in the bathroom anymore.

  I’ll sneak off when they aren’t looking—home, not into the bathroom to have a cry. I’d like to say I wouldn’t cry in the bathroom of a restaurant, but who knows.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. I had a nice fantasy about the dickhead falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.

  3. Lars texted me a picture of his coffee. I don’t know if there’s some h idden meaning there, but coffee is nice, right?

  Do you want to know what the stupidest thing about this diary-writing is? You never respond to my questions. Sure, some are rhetorical, but not all of them. If this is gonna work, you need to do your part.

  I’ll tell Janet it isn’t working the next time I see her; inform her I bought a broken journal. I’ve seen the Harry Potter movies, at least the one with the diary, and I know you’re supposed to respond.

  Do you think she’ll send me to the loony bin? Hey now, no need to strain yourself. It was a rhetorical question. Lars’s coffee photo though, any input there?

  * * * *

  Friday, September 16th

  Dear Diary,

  Janet had to cancel today. At first, I was relieved, but what if her kid isn’t sick at all? Maybe she didn’t have the energy to deal with me this afternoon. Imagine sitting all day listening to people’s problems, and then the last appointment of the day is some poor fucker who cries in the workplace bathroom because he spills coffee on a stack of paper.

  I bet her other patients have real problems. They have probably been abused and suffered through hell, and then there is me. Thirty-six, single, queer but without a traumatic coming-out story, and I have loving, supportive parents. My problem? No one knows. Too insane to function properly.

  People who are insane for real seldom know they are, which makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with me. I know grown men aren’t supposed to be crying in the bathroom at work. I know I shouldn’t respond to Lars’s texts since he deserves someone better. Does it mean I’m not insane?

  I should stop texting Lars.

  Right, I’m off to see the dickhead and the bitches. I’ll be back in an hour. I intend to go there, say hi, and then claim I have to use the restroom and sneak out.

  I hope I can manage without a ninja outfit.

  1. My breakfast coffee was okay.

  2. My lunch coffee was okay.

  3. Lars asking if I’d slept well during the night—I don’t sleep. I think my subconscious is trying to turn me into a vampire, but he’s nice to ask.

  You’re still not contributing to the conversation.

  * * * *

  Friday, September 16th

  Dear Diary,

  Twice in one day, I know! Don’t tell Janet. I’m still claiming you don’t help me, and you don’t since you don’t respond, but oh my God!

  When I got there, a panic attack built—the sense of doom, my heart racing, hands shaking. You know the deal. I tried Janet’s breathe in a square thing. Stood there pressed against the wall and breathed in and out while following the sides of an imaginary square.

  I don’t know if it worked. Maybe. While I was doing it, my phone buzzed. Had I been gone for real; I wouldn’t have noticed.

  Lars asked what I was doing, and I told him. I told him. I typed I was standing pressed against the wall inside the restaurant and breathed in a square to stave off a panic attack.

  I swear, no more than two minutes later, Lars crossed the threshold. He looked deliciously disheveled, as if he’d rushed out of the shower to come and save me. He’s way out of my league, but he walked in, checked all nooks and crannies, until he found me hiding in the shadows. Then he smiled. His entire face lit up, and my heart somersaulted. Silly, I know. I don’t have the energy for school-boy crushes.

  I was trying to tell him I was insane, and he should run away while he had the chance. He only chuckled, took my hand, and dragged me over to the dickhead and the others.

  The dickhead had already had a few drinks and was loud and rosy-cheeked. He talked about how important it was to meet outside the office and to have strong workplace relationships, and other things he’d most likely read in an article somewhere. I don’t know if he was trying to impress Lars or if he wants to sleep with one of the bitches. I, for one, don’t want to meet outside the office. I’m exhausted all the time; I don’t have the energy for fake smiles and feigned interest in the others and their spouses and children.

  I’m getting sidetracked! The dickhead and his ambitions aren’t important. What’s important is that Lars stayed with me. The others were drooling all over him. I don’t blame them. They don’t know there were a couple of years where his arms were far too long for his body. He’s grown into them now, and it’s hard not to drool.

  After Christopher, I didn’t think I’d ever look at another man again, but I have to admit there are butterflies in my chest whenever my phone buzzes. Pathetic since it can’t ever be. Lars is nice and normal; he can’t be with a loon like me. Sigh.

  I have to distance myself from him. It’s for his own good. He’ll understand.

  1. Lars saving me.

  2. Lars doing all the talking, so I didn’t have to.

  3. Lars looking all cute and insecure when he said goodbye outside the restaurant.

  4. My breakfast coffee.

  Should I have kissed him? I wanted to, but I need to protect him from me as he protected me from them.

  * * * *

  Monday, September 19th

  Dear Diary,

  I know, I know, but I never agreed to do homework over the weekend. I didn’t do anything anyway, didn’t leave the apartment.

  Today, I had an appointment with Janet. No sick kids saving me this time. She wants me to exercise.

  E.X.E.R.C.I.S.E.

  We were talking about my sleep habits or lack thereof, and she ordered me to work out for thirty minutes. And no, not thirty minutes total, thirty minutes every day.

  Every. Day.

  When do people have time to exercise? What drugs are they on, and why didn’t anyone share with me? I should have gone to another therapist, one who’s more pill-happy. They could’ve given me a cocktail of antidepressants and sleeping pills. I’d be a walking zombie at work—in other words, not much different from now—and not have cared about anything.

  The dickhead wouldn’t have been forced to arrange activities for our wellbeing since I’d melt into the office interior, and the others manage to hide their insanity.

  Right now, my brain is playing a scene of me melting into a wall—like the pirate in the underwater ship in one of the Pirate of the Caribbean movies, but without the clams and sea shells growing all over me.

  I told Janet about Lars coming to my rescue for the after-work drinks and how happy it made me. She smiled so widely I believed she’d hurt herself, so I had to tell her I can’t be with Lars. He’s so wonderfully normal, and I’m fucked up.

  She had a lot of questions, but I told her I was ruined after Christopher. I’m starting to function a little, but it’s been eight months. I hate my apartment. Compared to the house we had, it’s a dump. I hate my job, but I understand no one else wanting to hire me. I haven’t missed a single day in two and a half months now, but who knows, maybe I won’t be able to cross the threshold tomorrow morning.

  I tried making her understand. Tried to make her see I’m not boyfriend material, and Lars deserves a partner. Someone who will make him happy and be there for him when he needs it. I’m not reliable. I’m not saying I don’t want to be. I do. But I know there will be days when I’m not, and Lars deserves someone who has his back at all times.

  She gave me sad smiles and shook her head. Pity was not what I was going for. I wanted her to understand. Lars is kind and funny and hot, and I wish I was better. He makes me want to be better, as sappy as it sounds, but I’m not. I’m a wreck, and it would be selfish of me to push my insanity on him.

  I’m not gonna do the three good things today. You never do them, so why should I?

  * * * *

  Tuesday, September 20th

  Dear Diary,

  So…I went to Lars’s gym. I know I should have gone elsewhere, but it’s right across from work, and if I’m gonna do thirty minutes of exercise a day, the gym better be blocking my route or there is no way I’ll do it.

  I told Lars the truth, told him I lost the plot after Christopher, not only my sanity, but my house, and my job, too. I said my therapist had ordered me to do thirty minutes of exercise a day to cure my insomnia, but I refuse to lift weights. Refuse.

  I was sure it would scare him off. I mean, how can you stand to hang around and listen to someone who spills their sordid past? I said ‘My therapist says…’ several times, and he didn’t so much as blink.

  I know it’s his job. He has to stand there and listen and smile, but he could’ve shown me to a treadmill and left me there.

 

1 2 3