Monday, October 11, 2010


For the majority of my life, people have instructed me to keep a journal. This is because, for the majority of my life, people have been misinformed as to the newsworthiness of my life. Judging by past entries, it appears that every time I set to write about myself, I devolve into:

a) Whining about women, or
b) Whining about my life, or
c) Drawing ducks

Which is pretty much how I envision all journals, with the exception of the ducks.1

Though probably entertaining for a page or two, one can only assume that reading sixty years of this sort of drivel would get on one's nerves. Especially since the quality of the duck drawings has yet to improve.

Of course, I distinctly remember my childhood journal being entertaining. If I actually read it, I could tell you for sure, but, seeing as how I have no idea where it is, in fact, located, I can't.

I can, however, tell you that my mom has read it at least once. During this episode of "how can Chris infuriate his parents even more?", she claimed to have "forgotten" to write down things from her journal, and asked me if she could read mine to remember. This was immediately suspect to my eight-year-old spider sense, because:

a) My mom never forgets anything, in general, and, in specific
b) My mom never forgets to write in her journal.

I can't even imagine the dirt she has accumulated on me over the years. I shutter at the thought. At some point after her death we are going to have to deal with the sixty-odd volumes of journals littering her house, of which 59 could easily be complaints about having to deal with me, because I didn't practice like Jeremiah, or study like John, or...

Unlikely excuses aside, the time she asked to read my journal just happened to fall less than a week after the tirade I spewed out against my mother, accusing her of all manner of wickedness and abominations. As I was not the most intelligent child, this was all written down. In my journal. That she now asked to read.

And so we see how I, as a child, learned how to cover my tracks elegantly. I calmly, unsuspectingly, told her yes, she could read it, I just needed a few minutes to "go and get it". Fifteen minutes later, I delivered my journal to her, with a very unsuspicious half page of writing partially blacked out by a child's scribbling.

No, these were not my best days.

I spent the next few years writing very flattering things about my mother in my journal, and feeling guilty about not writing enough. This lasted until I came to a profound realization:

a) I have never read my journal
b) I have no desire to read my journal
c) I have never read anybody else's journal
d) I have no desire to read anybody else's journal

Why am I writing a journal?

Being lazy is its own excuse.

By granting you this justification, I free you from all journal-writing obligations.2

1. I wrote this a month ago, and it's just now hitting me that the description also applies to the complete guide to everything, minus the duck drawings, of course.
2. Before my mother gets mad at me for this, I'll just re-state that this is a joke. Of course. Joke. You see my eye? It's winking.


Chris said...

This means clearly that the complete guide would be better with drawings of ducks. Perhaps charge $5 at

chris said...