Dear...?

I’m not crazy about this format, to be honest. Just writing without direction, into a void. It’s not for me. I need to be writing or speaking to someone.

I remember that diary written by that jew girl — what’s her name? — the one about the holocaust. (That was a fine year I spent in public school, btw. We couldn’t have five minutes to pray after we said the pledge, no, but we could have teachers shove semitic propaganda down our throats. Hmpff. Anyway...) She wrote her entries like letters to a friend. I like that idea. After all, this diary is supposed to be about me getting my darkest, innermost thoughts out. What better way to do that than confide in someone I admire and trust?

Now I just have to decide who that friend will be. He should be a good listener, of course. And he should be wise. He should be strong, too, to keep me on my toes; I can’t get myself into the habit of whining like a pussy. Really, I guess I’m looking for a father figure of sorts. Someone who embodies everything I revere.

Hmm...

(Oops, almost forgot: God bless America.)

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