Dear Diary,

"F" you!
Perhaps why I don't keep a diary. I have nothing nice to say. Why would I want to relive my binge eating sexless existence on paper? It's traumatizing enough in real life.  Not to mention, every time I type the word "diary:" it comes out "dairy." Lactose intolerance has no place in my life...much like...sex. However forgoing ice cream is a voluntary decision. Forgoing sex was....lost in translation perhaps? Was it the "I do" or the person who forgot to break down the doors of God's palace when summoned by the call of, "Does anyone have just cause, any reason at all, big/small, why these two shouldn't call it a day and head on over to the reception for some truth serum?" Clearly someone sitting in the audience was suffering from life without dick. This "someone" most likely had a Rabbit in their pocket, while laughing and watching me swear away my vagina for life. Thanks whomever you were. F' you too.

Where was I? I get so emotional when it come to sex.Or lack thereof. Oh yeah. So now that Mother has me writing down everything I eat, it got me thinking. How come I don't keep a  diary...ya know...a good old fashion tell all diary. Seems like a very girly thing to do. Who am I kidding. I'm about 6 steps from being a lesbian. Let's discuss. I cuss like a sailor, I burp and fart at will, last night I dreamed I was a bridesmaid wearing biker boots and a tux, I stare at womens breasts constantly (mostly wondering why I paid $5k for mine) and I have an inordinate amount of sex with a plastic, purple bunny. Not sure where the cut off is but I fear border patrol could be coming to take me away at anytime. For the record, there's no way I could ever live with a woman. It's like shacking up with a human Mangina. I'd rather have Chlamydia or fleas. At least I can get rid of those in 7 days with no hard feelings. I wonder though....would I be the man or the woman. Not that I've given it alot of thought...well yes I have. What else do I have to do when forced to watch football and alien conspiracy shows? I think I would be the man. Only bcs I have such a dominant personality. Who would be my bitch? Guess I would have to go out to one of those all girl bars and wrestle me up some strange. Ok, yeah no. I'm willing to concede I'm not a shopper, a cook or anything that remotely resembles June Cleaver...but I am certainly not looking to date the Beav...if you get my drift. In any event...

Perhaps this is why I can't keep a diary...I have a touch of Mother's tick. I start talking about something and next thing ya know I'm the prehistoric creature better known as "Lickalotapuss!" Ok...focus. Let's just call it like it is...I can't have a diary bcs I'm a bad person. 99.9% of everything I say/do isn't fit for print. That's why I have this blog. No one reads it. I feel safe. What happens when Brad Pitt finally calls? I'll tell you--one, if not all of my not so loyal friends get jealous, finds the diary, turns it over to Brad who then learns of my fondness for nose picking,  Dutch Ovens and choco tacos. Then what? A great future gone at the hands of a bunch of wanna be lesbians who weren't willing to let me go. Bitches. So that's why I can't write it all down...I fear a lesbian rebellion. Not to mention if my husband found it he might divorce me. Mental note....write diary post haste and leave on nightstand with large sticky note saying, "Read Me." Let's play, shall we?

Dear Diary,
Hey Bitch. Today I woke up and tried to run off what I ate yesterday. Then it got dark, I was tired ,still fat and none of the cars would run me over to put me out of my misery... So I tried to have sex with my husband, but his vagina hurt. I think he was on his period. I called the Rabbit...he was available. I think I may have Toxic Shock Syndrome....not from tampons. From knowing I married a man and fuck a rabbit. Try explaining to the doctor that your vag is on fire bcs your man is plastic with pearl ears. Not an easy conversation. I think tomorrow I'll pick a fight around 4:30pm so I don't have to cook dinner. Then I'll randomly start packing which could result in me getting taken out to dinner and possibly even a night off from the Rabbit. One can hope. I think my husband may be kin to Stevie Wonder. (A). He married me and  (2). He can't seem to see trash, bills or things that require fixing. Is there a pill for that? I tried explaining to him that dirty dishes live in the dish washer, dirty clothes live in the hamper and dirty ho's live right under his nose- ready and willing at any time. None of which seemed to settle well with his current mental capabilities. Guess I'll go leave the trash on his pillow. Maybe he might see it there...or sleep in the guest room. Can't be sure. Well Bitch I gotta go.

No good can come of this. Diary's are not your friend. They are simply insurance policies to keep you from pissing off the people who love you and will clearly sell you down the river for the right price. I'm not goin out like that. I'm going to continue to be me.... in real life. If I don't write it down, I can deny it. Much like my weight, my family and of my friends. Take that and stick it in your Lesbian Lucky Charms. Silly Rabbit...tricks are for SIF!