Dear Diary

Happy Friday, folks. Another work week down for all of us young professionals, ha? Just clocking in and clocking out, amirite? Guys? Just workin’ for the man, paying our bills. It’s a crazy world, being a young professional. That’s what we’re called, right? Young professionals? I’ve heard that on the radio anyways. The radio, huh? Can’t live with it, can’t live without it, as the old young professional saying goes. Guys?

I recently started a writing class of a Monday morning because I inexplicably have a lot of free time. The first class was fun and typical. Most of the class was quite a bit older than me and the teacher was quirky, artsy and had the trademark breathy voice of a writer. She was cool and so were the other class members. Now, if I get a whiff of a full time job they’re all dead to me and FUCK WRITING. But until then, they are my brothers and sisters in arms and I love each and every one of them like family.
The teacher made sure to tell us that we should write in a journal every night. We are not writing a diary, (which makes the title of this piece fairly redundant, but hey, that’s showbiz!) but moreso a journal with writerly intent. Every entry was to be descriptive and awash with prose and feeling. Mundane events were to be transformed into something extraordinary. My life was to be interesting.
I gave it a go over the last few days. Here are a couple of entries.

01/10/19.

General shitheads, teenagers and asshole adults: “What films are on?” “What time’s the next film on?” “Can I go see Hustlers please?” “But I’m his mother and I say he can go see that film! This is ridiculous!” “Why do I have to pay an extra euro for a seat I didn’t ask for?”

Me: Guys, if I could just answer ye all in one sweeping statement. I appreciate that the signs are hard to read and that the writing is a bit small on some of the fliers. I know, too, that you’re his mother but, and forgive me if I’m overstepping the mark here, but you don’t work for IFCO nor do you work here. That’s actually my fault, sir. You can sit wherever you want and I’ll just inform the managers that nobody wants to pay for luxury. So, everyone, kindly, FUCK OFF!

02/10/19

Dearest Diary,

It is a blustery day here in the North of the City. The rains have stayed away for now but there is talk of a storm coming. Lorenzo, they are calling him. Isn’t that funny, Diary? I am imagining a big hunk of a man, of Spanish descent of course, riding in to our Emerald Isle on a horse and sweeping the nation up in hysteria.
Oh, Diary, it has been so long since anyone has swept me up in hysteria, if you know what I mean. Do forgive me, Diary. I don’t know myself sometimes.
The local picture house still holds me in employ, thankfully. I am looking for something more permanent but I doubt that an office will satisfy my need of popped corn and cola, HA HA HA HA. Oh, we do have fun, Diary.
Anywho, it has been fun. Until tomorrow, my friend.

Yours,
Ciana Dalton.

03/10/19

All I give you is love. I made a promise to love you forever, through thick and thin. I have upheld my end of the deal. I will love you forever, but you have to meet me halfway here. I can’t be doing all of the work. I can’t see you week in and week out just not caring about me anymore. It’s not just me. There’s a billion of us out there, loving you and needing you to just… care. So, as God is my witness, if you lose to AZ Alkmaar tonight in the Europa League I will still love you, but I will not like you.

I’m still working on my tone. Hopefully my teacher approves. Wish me luck you guys, xo