Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

Today I'm writing outside. My coat's too big for me.The sleeves reach my knuckles and the hem reaches mid thigh. It's too big, but it does it's job and really that's all that matters. My fingers are kind of frozen though, like the grass. Don't you love winter, Diary? You can't love winter. You're a booklet full of words written by a mentally unstable girl. I'll love winter for you, Diary. I'll love winter enough for the both of us. 

Honestly, the reason I'm out here is because i'm hoping the cold air and the sight of seeing my breath come out like smoke will take the idea of visiting my therapist today out of my head. You know, she's not as bad as I first described her. She's not a bitch at all. She's actually a nice and patient woman. I just really fucking hated her for making me write in this stupid fucking iditotic piece of shit diary that makes me feel like i'm a middle school girl who has a crush on a boy in the grade above me. Shit.

She's not that bad, though. 

Winter isn't that bad either.

I'm bad.

fucking bad.

-Randy