So, I was readin’ some survived pages of my old and only diary. Beside the fact that I’m gonna burn it as fast as I can and fuck the ethics of respect to dead trees in this special case, things were unbelievably weird with it. This diary goes back to 9-10 years ago and I’m like who the hell did write this crap?! Is that really me? Was I stolen by some cruel aliens? This is just pure misunderstanding!
And I remembered how I mucked somebody for her teen diary a few years ago. I was almost like her. Except that I’m not stupid enough to keep this evidence of shapeshifting. It’s like worm and butterfly. Well, I’m not sure about the butterfly part for who I am right now, but I was definitely a moron worm back then. Some references to Latin American writers were promisin’. The funny thing is I don’t remember readin’ ’em at all! I used to be a huge football fan back then. No surprise. God was still alive. Again, according to the level of my stupidity, predictable. I listened to radio and loved a LOT of actors! Sure I did. Apparently, I was bored to death most of the times. Total mess. The way I saw the world, the very first traces of my depression, people I hung out with (who defuq is Leila? Or roya?)…. total freakin’ mess.
The scariest part is I think I’m gonna look back at this journal and I’m gonna see my present self a poor stupid worm again.
Butterfly is just a dream. Butterfly is far from happenin’.
PS. I became so pink recently! It’ll be OK after seein’ my babe. Promise.