Dear Diary,

jour·nal
( P ) (jûrnl)n.

A personal record of occurrences, experiences, and reflections kept on a regular basis; a diary.
An official record of daily proceedings, as of a legislative body.
Nautical. A ship's log.
A book of original entry in a double-entry system, listing all transactions and indicating the Accounts to which they belong.
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So here we are, 8 years later and none the different. Your grade school ways still ring true through your post-secondary educated facade. Mum and Dad can pay for some text books and a piece of paper, but they can’t buy your maturity.
You were always the drama queen, shedding classroom tears in exchange for playground pity. Screaming for attention, you attain your goals by defimating others. A tried and true target you find painted elegantly on my back.
False accusations and blanket statements take the foreground in the one-way battle for your satisfaction.
What causes one to be so full of angst? Surely it must have something to do with pop-culture and your inability to find yourself. I would refer to you as a black sheep, but nothing could be further from the truth, in every aspect of the phrase.
So carry on with your selfish and immature ways. I can’t be bothered to be a part of your clique and their games. Defimating strangers and spreading lies like diseases may be a fun past time for some, but for those who choose to do something with their lives, you come across as desperate and pathetic.
This isn’t school anymore, no more sock-hops to spend crying in the bathroom so look for your attention elsewhere, and remember a journal is a pacifier, not a tool of discrimination.