Dear Diary Quotes

Dear Diary, Oh, it's all too much to explain and you wouldn't believe it anyway. I'm going to bed. Bonnie

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn about anyone else

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

All right, you caught me. I'm secretly obsessed with you and spend all my free time writing about you in my journal. 'Dear Diary, today Will was an ass for the 467th day in a row. He's so dreamy

Dear Diary, Today I tried not to think about Mr. Knightly. I tried not to think about him when I discussed the menu with Cook... I tried not to think about him in the garden where I thrice plucked the petals off a daisy to acertain his feelings for Harriet. I don't think we should keep daisies in the garden, they really are a drab little flower. And I tried not to think about him when I went to bed, but something had to be done.

Exercise II. Write a diary, imagining that you are trying to make an old person jealous. I have written an example to get you started: Dear Diary, I spent the morning admiring my skin elasticity. God alive, I feel supple.

Richard wrote a diary entry in his head. Dear Diary, he began. On Friday I had a job, a fiancée, a home, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as any life makes sense). Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement, and I tried to be a Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiancée, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruitfly.

Dear Aunt Loretta, Thank you so much for the awesome pants! How did you know I wanted that for Christmas? I love the way the pants look on my legs! All my friends will be so jealous that I have my very own pants. Thank you for making this the best Christmas ever! Sincerely, Greg

You always were selfish. Your one fault. Not willing to share anything, are you?" Suddenly, Damon's lips curved up in a singularly beautiful smile. But fortunately the lovely Elena is more generous. Didn't she tell you about our little liaisons? Why? The first time we met she almost gave herself to me on the spot." "That's a lie!" "Oh, no, dear brother, I never lie about anything important. Or do I mean unimportant? Anyway, your beauteous damsel nearly swooned into my arms. I think she likes men in black." As Stefan stared at him, trying to control his breathing, Damon added, almost gently, "You're wrong about her, you know, You think she's sweet and docile like Katherine. She isn't. She's not your type at all, my saintly brother. She has a spirit and a fire in her that you wouldn't know what to do with." "And you would, I suppose." Damon uncrossed his arms and slowly smiled again. "Oh, yes.

I would write, Dear Diary, Today I convinced myself it's ok to give up. Stick with the status quo, now just isn't the time. But my reasons aren't reasons, they're excuses and the truth is, I'm scared Stefan. I'm scared that if I let myself be happy for one minute, that the my world's going to come crashing down and I don't know if I'll be able to survive that.

This means that I don't have to run faster than the psychotic-maniac-vampire-cannibal, I just have to run faster than whoever is with me when the psychotic-maniac-vampire-cannibal starts chasing us.

How Superheroes Make Money: - Spider-Man knits sweaters. - Superman screw the lids on pickle jars. - Iron Man, as you would suspect, just irons.

never underestimate your dumbness!!

Somos amigos." "¿Amigos?" Gabriel rió sin ganas. "Claro que somos amigos, pero cualquiera que tenga dos dedos de frente se daría cuenta de que me he enamorado de ti..

MISS PRISM Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

No permitas que la preocupación por lo que vendrá mañana te robe la dicha de hoy. Quizás el presente sea muestro único tesoro.

I don’t want to get old. I have this very silly fear, dear friend, that one day I’ll be old, without ever having really been young.

DEAR DI­ARY You are greater than the Bible And the Con­fer­ence of the Birds And the Up­an­ishads All put to­geth­er You are more se­vere Than the Scrip­tures And Ham­mura­bi’s Code More dan­ger­ous than Luther’s pa­per Nailed to the Cathe­dral door You are sweet­er Than the Song of Songs Might­ier by far Than the Epic of Gil­gamesh And braver Than the Sagas of Ice­land I bow my head in grat­itude To the ones who give their lives To keep the se­cret The dai­ly se­cret Un­der lock and key Dear Di­ary I mean no dis­re­spect But you are more sub­lime Than any Sa­cred Text Some­times just a list Of my events Is holi­er than the Bill of Rights And more in­tense

I was not speaking literally.” I think the slight softness to his voice is sympathy. Dear Diary, I imagine him writing later. Today I met a woman wearing too many buttons who does not understand what a metaphor is.

Book five of Dork Diaries is one of my favorite books it brings my thoughts deep into the book and think if you haven't read it you should you will probably fell just as I fell.

I'm telling you, the gorgeous of the world can actually look pretty intimidating when they scowl. Imagine a snow-white swan with a scary tattoo holding a chain saw. There's just no way to really prepare for that.

don't expect me to be all dear diary this and dear diary that

He giggled like a puppy being tickled by a kitten wearing a duckling costume.

I had the great idea of using markers to gently color the ants so I could tell them apart, but I learned that this is exactly like somebody trying to gently color on you with a thirty-story building. Without dwelling on the tragedy, I'd just like to say that I'm deeply sorry to Mr. Purple and the surviving Purple family.

I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn't write them down, I should probably forget all about them.' 'Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Things Isabella Wouldn't Care About: - Titanic sinking again. - Metror striking Earth and landing directly on top of world's most innocent panda. - Titanic sinking again and this time the entire crew is puppies.

Once more Isambard looked completely terrified. Twice in one night! This was going to be a diary entry for the ages.

The Destructive Arts are exactly like Martial Arts, except they don't have uniforms or usefulness and the end result doesn't resemble art in any way.

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Homework strongly indicates that the teachers are not doing their jobs well enough during the school day. It's not like they'll let you bring your home stuff to school and work on it there. You can't say, 'I didn't finish sleeping at home, so I have to work on finishing my sleep here.

Nunca sabrás lo bien que me ha hecho conocerte-dijo-.Jamás tendré oportunidad de llevarte al cine, ni de invitarte a caminar por la playa, ni de hacerte el amor, pero todos los días agradezco a Dios haberte tenido en mi vida por un tiempo. Eso es un milagro, Jean.

Dear Diary, the Heroine never cries.

Mrs. Palmer is a teacher so naturally I assumed she would never do anything good for me.

The following ten throws went a variety of places. I never hit the target, but I was getting closer. Isabella was laughing so hard she wrote "Please stop can't breathe" in the dirt with her finger.

Advice to explorers everywhere: if you would like to recieve due credit for your discoveries, keep a detailed account of your journeys as Columbus did. On Septemeber 28, 1492, after four weeks at sea, he writes: Dear diary...I means journal. Yes, dear journal. That's what I meant to say. Whew. Anyway, we have yet to discover America, and the crew has become increasingly rebellious. I have decided to turn back if we have not spotted it by Columbus Day. Will write again later if not killed by crew. P.S. Last night's buffet was fabulous, the ice sculptures magnificent.

To much has happened too fast Dear Diary. What I want is for nothing to happen at all. I don't even want good things anymore. I just want nothing.

Dear diary," Anya muttered. "It's been three hours since I killed someone. Needless to say, life sucks. My gorgeous fiancé refuses to let me kill the most loathsome creature ever. Won't even let me give her a few superficial stab wounds. I'm thinking about breaking up with him." "I wouldn't recommend it" Reyes replied. "He may not ask for your hand in marriage a second time." She gasped with outrage. "Lucien. Tell him!" 'I'd ask again." Lucien told him,

I can't imagine the scientists wanting me to walk into the lab and start fiddling around with some big bowl of electrons they had out.

Dear Diary, All that she left inside the box was a blank book and a name. You are the book, and I am the name...An-Ya. As you know, my name is printed on your first page. Did She write it? What did She look like as She stood over you with Her pen? Were there tears in Her eyes? Why were you left empty inside?

I have always been interested in this man. My father had a set of Tom Paine's books on the shelf at home. I must have opened the covers about the time I was 13. And I can still remember the flash of enlightenment which shone from his pages. It was a revelation, indeed, to encounter his views on political and religious matters, so different from the views of many people around us. Of course I did not understand him very well, but his sincerity and ardor made an impression upon me that nothing has ever served to lessen. I have heard it said that Paine borrowed from Montesquieu and Rousseau. Maybe he had read them both and learned something from each. I do not know. But I doubt that Paine ever borrowed a line from any man... Many a person who could not comprehend Rousseau, and would be puzzled by Montesquieu, could understand Paine as an open book. He wrote with a clarity, a sharpness of outline and exactness of speech that even a schoolboy should be able to grasp. There is nothing false, little that is subtle, and an impressive lack of the negative in Paine. He literally cried to his reader for a comprehending hour, and then filled that hour with such sagacious reasoning as we find surpassed nowhere else in American letters - seldom in any school of writing. Paine would have been the last to look upon himself as a man of letters. Liberty was the dear companion of his heart; truth in all things his object. ...we, perhaps, remember him best for his declaration: 'The world is my country; to do good my religion.' Again we see the spontaneous genius at work in 'The Rights of Man', and that genius busy at his favorite task - liberty. Written hurriedly and in the heat of controversy, 'The Rights of Man' yet compares favorably with classical models, and in some places rises to vaulting heights. Its appearance outmatched events attending Burke's effort in his 'Reflections'. Instantly the English public caught hold of this new contribution. It was more than a defense of liberty; it was a world declaration of what Paine had declared before in the Colonies. His reasoning was so cogent, his command of the subject so broad, that his legion of enemies found it hard to answer him. 'Tom Paine is quite right,' said Pitt, the Prime Minister, 'but if I were to encourage his views we should have a bloody revolution.' Here we see the progressive quality of Paine's genius at its best. 'The Rights of Man' amplified and reasserted what already had been said in 'Common Sense', with now a greater force and the power of a maturing mind. Just when Paine was at the height of his renown, an indictment for treason confronted him. About the same time he was elected a member of the Revolutionary Assembly and escaped to France. So little did he know of the French tongue that addresses to his constituents had to be translated by an interpreter. But he sat in the assembly. Shrinking from the guillotine, he encountered Robespierre's enmity, and presently found himself in prison, facing that dread instrument. But his imprisonment was fertile. Already he had written the first part of 'The Age of Reason' and now turned his time to the latter part. Presently his second escape cheated Robespierre of vengeance, and in the course of events 'The Age of Reason' appeared. Instantly it became a source of contention which still endures. Paine returned to the United States a little broken, and went to live at his home in New Rochelle - a public gift. Many of his old companions in the struggle for liberty avoided him, and he was publicly condemned by the unthinking. {The Philosophy of Paine, June 7, 1925}

Charlie dear, it is I who have to be proud of you. And I am very, very proud of you. You have called me pretty; and as long as I am pretty in your eyes, I am happy. You, dear old Charlie, are not handsome, but you are good, which is far more noble.

Dear precious Diary, I am baptizing you with my tears. I know we have to leave and that one day I will even have to leave my father and mother’s home and go into a home of my own. But ever I will take you with me.

We’re so fortunate here, away from the turmoil. We wouldn’t have to give a moment’s thought to all this suffering if it weren’t for the fact that we’re so worried about those we hold dear, whom we can no longer help.

Dear Diary, My pen is finally touching your pages. It is time to tell our story. Our story began in China and now it continues in America. I want to write about our old life and I want to write about our life now. I will write it all down with hopes that somehow I can connect the two worlds I have lived in. Right now those worlds seem so far apart.

Dear Diary Went out shopping today. Picked up half a dozen sheep, two pigs, and a princess. The sheep are rather depressingly thin, the pigs and princess only slightly less so. Dear Diary Went out shopping today. Picked up half a dozen sheep, two pigs, and a princess. The sheep are rather depressingly thin, the pigs and princess only slightly less so.

I lie in bed at night, after ending my prayers with the words 'Ich danke dir für all das Gute und Liebe und Schöne' (Thank you, God, for all that is good and dear and beautiful)

Dear Diary, We flew to the other side of the world, and I never stopped holding you close to my chest. You were empty and so was I. My only friend in the world. The only one who understood where I began and where I was going. We flew together and everything we knew before was gone.

Ant 1: So, uh, do you ever worry that your itsy little neck is just going to snap under the weight of your head? Ant 2: Stop asking me that. You ask me that, like, every five minutes. Ant 1: Sometimes I notice my antennae out of the corner of my eye and I'm all, like: AHH! Something is on me! Get it off! Get it off! Ant 2: Yeah, the antennae again. Listen, I just remembered, I have to go walk around aimlessly now.

Well, it’s not MY fault you’re such an AIRHEAD that if you open your mouth I can hear the ocean!” I shot back.

Ever notice how amused people are when you point out one of their mannerisms or a funny quirk about them? They start laughing and getting happy because they're thinking, "People notice me! I'm relevent!" It's OK to have these instincts, but you have to suppress them a bit. There are 6 billion people here, so it's not all about you. You need to let other people talk for a while and pay attention to their world for a sec.

There are four categories of questions Emmily asks: 1. Can I please go to the bathroom? 2. Where is the bathroom? 3. Is it okay if I raise my hand and ask a question? 4. I don't understand anything you've said in the last thirty minutes. Could you explain it again? Also the last six weeks.

Dear

You know that feeling. When you like a boy but then he starts to like you and you stop liking him.

Thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears; in fact, you could spend the whole day crying. The most you can do is pray for God to perform a miracle and save at least some of them.

Dear Diary, There is so much I have neglected to report. I've grown two new teeth, abandoned my life's one true mission and fallen into something bottomless and terrible... I wonder if it's love. And now my husband has returned to me

I felt unsteady as I lead Xerxes to his seat. Women in his kingdom were but dressing for a man's bed and a satisfactory way to provide heirs. The king had once banished a queen on the advice of his counsel. Now would he accept the word of his queen and banish the adviser? Dear God, I pleaded silently, how can it be that I should change history? I am a prisoner myself – how can I asked for the freedom of a nation?

Same day, 11 o'clock p. m..—Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital `severe tea' at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little oldfashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweedcovered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the `New Woman' with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.

I make believe all my dear ones are not gone, just out of my line of sight beyond some curtain or cluster of people, or tree

Dear Kitty, Nothing special going on here.

Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

This MS. was read, and contents thereof disapproved, by Peter Zudotyeshin. M. M. M. M. Dear Sir, Peter Zudotyeshin, My dear Sir.

Thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears.

A mirror that witnessed death was as dear to me as a poisoned apple that steals breath.

dear.

Time stands still when someone dear vanishes from life.

Dear Kitty,

MISS PRISM: Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us. CECILY: Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn't possibly have happened.

My dad, unlike most of humanity, had no secrets at all. He had no hidden vices, no diaries, no embarrassing interests, no box of private things he kept all to himself. I found nothing that further enlightened me about his inner life, nothing that might help me understand him after he was gone. My dad, I knew then, was just as he'd always seemed to be, and I suddenly realised how much I admired him for that.

I repaired a tear she sustained a couple of weeks ago during a spontaneous vaginal delivery. Dear Adam, Just wanted to say thank you. You did a fantastic job – my GP checked my stitches and said you could hardly tell I’d had a baby, let alone a third-degree tear! I’m extremely grateful to you. Thank you again. Everything about it is so thoughtful, the kind of thing that makes the whole job totally worthwhile. She’d even made it herself – beautiful textured white card adorned with her baby’s footprint in gold paint on the front. Then again, I guess she didn’t have much choice – there can’t be much call in Paperchase for ‘Thanks for mending my anus!’ cards.

I have no delusions that a diary can ever remain private and so I shall write to you, dear reader, and imagine that you may be a distant descendant of mine or perhaps have come across this diary by happenstance a century after I have turned to dust.

Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us. Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn't possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.

We set out early that morning to inspect the ruins of the Acropolis. I know I shall never forget how extraordinarily pure the atmosphere was that morning. It seemed as though the world were not very old but very, very young, almost as though the world had been newly created. There was a taste of earliness in the air, a feeling of freshness, exhilarating my senses, exalting my spirit. How shall I tell you, dear Diary, the way the sky looked? It was almost as though I had moistened the tip of my pen in a shallow bowl full of milk, so delicate was the blue in the dome of the heavens.

Dear God, I have everything I could wish for, while fate has her in its deadly clutches. She was as devout as I am, maybe even more so, and she too wanted to do what was right. But then why have I been chosen to live, while she’s probably going to die? What’s the difference between us? Why are we now so far apart?

It’s not easy being a soul helper. ‘I know, dear, they can be so demanding those dead ones, but I know you can do it, my little one,’ he’d say. Mum helps when she can, but she is always floating here and there and it’s hard to catch her. We tried her with a mobile phone, but it requires too much mental exertion for a ghost to hold anything for long, so she kept losing it. In the end, we gave up.

I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger." "What are you talking about?" said Harry. "The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes- how her brothers tease her, how she had come to school with secondhand robes and books, how"- Riddle's eyes glinted- "how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..." All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There was an almost hungry look in them. "It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in.... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket...." Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck. "If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted.... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..." "What d'you mean?" said Harry, whose mouth had gone dry. "Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat." "No," Harry whispered. "Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, watching Harry's horrified face, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me.... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad.... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!

In retrospect people often seem embarrassed by that time--the late sixties into the seventies--as if suddenly confronted with some lunatic member of your family, once revered, now disgraced. Even John Lennon, who would hold on as much as anybody, would at one point have to declare, "Don't give me no more brother, brother." [...] But, really, so much was accomplished, so much changed (and even less noticed, a lot held on to), that it seems inappropriate to be quite so uncomfortable with our past. For by refusing to accept the world as we were told to (most pointedly the war in Vietnam) we held on to many of the traditional values we had been taught, not the least of which was to demand accountability from our government. We shouldn't forget that a lot had to change. For America couldn't forever remain the child of the Hula-Hoop with the arsenal of Armageddon.

November 27th, 1943 It was mean of me to treat her that way, and now she was looking at me, oh so helplessly, with her pale face and beseeching eyes. If only I could help her! Dear God, I have everything I could wish for, while fate has her in its deadly clutches. She was as devout as I am, maybe even more so, and she too wanted to do what was right. But then why have I been chosen to live, while she's probably going to die? What's the difference between us? Why are we now so far apart?

Thursday 8 February [Halifax] Came upstairs at 11 a.m. Spent my time from then till 3, writing to M— very affectionately, more so than I remember to have done for long… Wrote the following crypt, ‘I can live upon hope, forget that we grow older, & love you as warmly as ever. Yes, Mary, you cannot doubt the love of one who has waited for you so long & patiently. You can give me all of happiness I care for &, prest to the heart which I believe my own, caressed & treasured there, I will indeed be constant & never, from that moment, feel a wish or thought for any other than my wife. You shall have every smile & every breath of tenderness. “One shall our union & our interests be” & every wish that love inspires & every kiss & every dear feeling of delight shall only make me more securely & entirely yours.’ Then, after hoping to see her in York next winter & at Steph’s2 before the end of the summer, I further wrote in crypt as follows, ‘I do not like to be too long estranged from you sometimes, for, Mary, there is a nameless tie in that soft intercourse which blends us into one & makes me feel that you are mine. There is no feeling like it. There is no pledge which gives such sweet possession.’ Monday 12 February [Halifax] Letter… from Anne Belcombe (Petergate, York)… nothing but news & concluded, ‘from your ever sincere, affectionate, Anne Belcombe.’ The seal, Cupid in a boat guided by a star. ‘Si je te perds, je suis perdu.’3 Such letters as these will keep up much love on my part. I shall not think much about her but get out of the scrape as well as I can, sorry & remorseful to have been in it at all. Heaven forgive me, & may M— never know it.

In bed at night, as I ponder my many sins and exaggerated shortcomings, I get so confused by the sheer amount of things I have to consider that I either laugh or cry, depending on my mood. Then I fall asleep with the strange feeling of wanting to be different than I am or being different than I want to be, or perhaps of behaving differently than I am or want to be. Oh dear, now I'm confusing you too. Forgive me, but I don't like crossing things out, and in these times of scarcity, tossing away a piece of paper is clearly taboo. So I can only advise you not to re-read the above passage and to make no attempt to get to the bottom of it, because you'll never find your way out again!

December 29th, 1943 How lonely Grandma must have been, in spite of us. You can be lonely even when you're loved by many people, since you're still not anybody's "one and only." ... Hanneli, you're a reminder of what my fate might have been...Why do I always think and dream the most awful things and want to scream in terror? Because, in spite of everything, I still don't have enough faith in God. He's given me so much, which I don't deserve, and yet each day I make so many mistakes! Thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears; in fact, you could spend a whole day crying. The most you can do is pray for God to perform a miracle and save at least some of them. And I hope I'm doing enough of that!

The worse thing I have done in my life is Diary writing.... a wastage of time, wastage of papers filled with some imaginary feelings and bunch of silly activities done each day.... I cant feel any glimpse of appreciable work done by me, as whatever right I did, my Diary says " you were suppose to do it, so it was not a big deal....huhhh..." I passed my last few nights in reading most of its pages.... "I laughed on the lines telling about my saddest moments and nights when I cried….. but I felt woeful and downhearted on the lines telling about the moments when I shared my smile with someone, when I enjoyed the moments with my friends and near and dear ones, who r far and far now, and we can’t get those moments back in this busy selfish life" So now its better in busy life to live evry day and forget it in night.... enjoy life.... save papers.... no diary writing from today..... Sorry Diary, You will Miss Me....

Dear Lily Don't think me silly, but I forget what time you said. Are we meeting at two thirty? It's gone right from my head. Did you say Monday or Thursday? I have quite forgotten what day. Was it late lunch, or afternoon tea? Tell me, what did you say? I think I would like to do Tuesday. Let's go for a lovely lunch. Or, if you prefer we could even go early, and settle for brunch. A lovely Bistro or Cafe Bar, or maybe a country pub. I don't really mind that much, as long as we get some grub. Dear Maisie, Are you going crazy? We didn't set a date. You needed to check your diary. I think you are losing it, mate. But since you are free on Tuesday, and that day suits me fine. Could we meet, about twelve…ish? Its early I like to dine. You mentioned the pub, or Bistro, or some fancy Cafe Bar. Not sure I like the sound of that, and I'm not coming in the car. If the weather is bright and sunny, we could always dine al fresco. Failing that, we could just go get a cake and a cuppa in Tesco.

Dear Natasha, if you are reading this, it means something has happened to your dad and me, and I am so sorry that I left you alone, baby, and I really hope you are happy. Happy Fourteenth Birthday, sweetheart. Everything you need to know is in the diaries and if you have any questions, I hope Mark and Anna will be able to answer them. I never meant to leave you like this, but your Dad and I made some very stupid and impulsive decisions and put your life in danger. I hope once you realize why we did what we did, you will forgive us. The world you are going to be exposed to is scary and I hope my diaries and weapons will help you navigate through the labyrinths of obstacles that you will face. They will find you soon, and when they do, remember to make smart and thoughtful decisions—decisions that will depend on your knowledge and wisdom and not feelings or family. Always remember that Luna, we and he are always looking out for you. Remember that I love you and I never meant to do what I did. I am sorry. And if you find him, please take care of each other. Love, Mom

Dear Natasha, if you are reading this, it means something has happened to your dad and me, and I am so sorry that I left you alone, baby, and I really hope you are happy. Happy Fourteenth Birthday, sweetheart. Everything you need to know is in the diaries and if you have any questions, I hope Mark and Anna will be able to answer them. I never meant to leave you like this, but your Dad and I made some very stupid and impulsive decisions and put your life in danger. I hope once you realize why we did 8 what we did, you will forgive us. The world you are going to be exposed to is scary and I hope my diaries and weapons will help you navigate through the labyrinths of obstacles that you will face. They will find you soon, and when they do, remember to make smart and thoughtful decisions—decisions that will depend on your knowledge and wisdom and not feelings or family. Always remember that Luna, we and he are always looking out for you. Remember that I love you and I never meant to do what I did. I am sorry. And if you find him, please take care of each other. Love, Mom

Follow me, my dear protesters! We will get to the bottom of this today!” “Yeah!” The crowd cheered him on. “We will take the Mayor down!” Pegg shouted. “We will take the Mayor down!” The crowd repeated. “We will take the Mayor down!” Pegg shouted again. “We will take the Mayor down!” The crowd chanted. At one point, Pegg tripped on a rock and fell. “Ouch! My knees!” He yelled in pain. “Ouch! My knees!” The crowd went along with him. “No, don’t repeat that!” Pegg asked. “No! Don’t repeat that!” The crowd blindly followed his voice. “What a bunch of stupid Piglins,” Pegg mumbled. “Wait a minute; we are heading to the wrong place. The City Hall is to the other side!” Pegg yelled. “The City Hall is to the other side!” The crowd chanted ignoring his orders and continuing in the wrong direction. “No, wait! Stop!” Pegg ordered. “No, wait! Stop!” The crowd simply repeated everything but didn’t actually pay attention to what Pegg was saying. “This is a mess!” Pegg cursed at the crowd. “This is a mess!” They shouted. Peter and I looked at each other. “I suppose leading a crowd that big isn’t as easy as he thought.” Peter mentioned.

As youngest among us, but small no more, Your life can be trying, for we have the chore Of becoming your teachers, a terrible bore. "We've got experience! Take it from me!" "We've done this all before, you see. We know the ropes, we know the same." Since time immemorial, always the same. One's own shortcomings are nothing but fluff, But everyone else's are heavier stuff: Faultfinding comes easy when this is our plight, But it's hard for your parents, try as they might, To treat you with fairness, and kindness as well; Nitpicking's a habit that's hard to dispel. Men you're living with old folks, all you can do Is put up with their nagging -- it's hard but it's true. The pill may be bitter, but down it must go, For it's meant to keep the peace, you know. The many months here have not been in vain, Since wasting time noes against your Brain. You read and study nearly all the day, Determined to chase the boredom away. The more difficult question, much harder to bear, Is "What on earth do I have to wear? I've got no more panties, my clothes are too tight, My shirt is a loincloth, I'm really a siaht! To put on my shoes I must off my toes, Dh dear, I'm plagued with so many woes!

ACT I Dear Diary, I have been carrying you around for a while now, but I didn’t write anything before now. You see, I didn’t like killing that cow to get its leather, but I had to. Because I wanted to make a diary and write into it, of course. Why did I want to write into a diary? Well, it’s a long story. A lot has happened over the last year and I have wanted to write it all down for a while, but yesterday was too crazy not to document! I’m going to tell you everything. So where should we begin? Let’s begin from the beginning. I kind of really want to begin from the middle, though. It’s when things got very interesting. But never mind that, I’ll come to it in a bit. First of all, my name is Herobrine. That’s a weird name, some people say. I’m kinda fond of it, but that’s just me I suppose. Nobody really talks to me anyway. People just refer to me as “Him”. Who gave me the name Herobrine? I gave it to myself, of course! Back in the day, I used to be called Jack, but it was such a run-of-the-mill name, so I changed it. Oh hey, while we’re at the topic of names, how about I give you a name, Diary? Yeah, I’m gonna give you a name. I’ll call you… umm, how does Doris sound? Nah, very plain. I must come up with a more creative name. Angela sounds cool, but I don’t think you’ll like that. Come on, give me some time. I’m not used to coming up with awesome names on the fly! Yes, I got it! I’ll call you Moony, because I created you under a full moon. Of course, that’s such a perfect name! I am truly a genius. I wish people would start appreciating my intellect. Oh, right. The story, right, my bad. So Moony, when it all started, I was a miner. Yep, just like 70% of the people in Scotland. And it was a dull job, I have to say. Most of the times, I mined for coal and iron ore. Those two resources were in great need at my place, that’s why so many people were miners. We had some farmers, builders, and merchants, but that was basically it. No jewelers, no booksellers, no restaurants, nothing. My gosh, that place was boring! I had always been fascinated by the idea of building. It seemed like so much fun, creating new things from other things. What’s not to like? I wanted to build, too. So I started. It was part-time at first, and I only did it when nobody was around. Whenever I got some free time on my hands, I spent it building stuff. I would dig out small caves and build little horse stables and make boats and all. It was so much fun! So I decided to take it to the next level and left my job as a miner. They weren’t paying me well, anyway. I traveled far and wide, looking for places to build and finding new materials. I’m quite the adrenaline junkie, I soon realized, always looking for an adventure.

I’ve always been a person who has believed in the love and in the power of love. It occurred to me that it is an essence which connects to the hearts of people, to the hearts of the beasts and to the One-Above-All.…… .…………. Sometimes, if people are dysfunctional together, they will have dysfunctional families and kids who are dysfunctional to the society, each in a unique disorderly way. Love, is the key to disorder and anarchy as it emanates from truth and then further emanates commitment, care, respect and sacrifice. It has the powers over emotions of a human and their mindset and it has been bringing changes to the lives of people. The problem of dysfunctional relationships is the connection is based upon truths which are not mutually established. To make a relationship functional is very much possible and is as essential to being human as the fact that we are very intelligent beings. A love based on truth will always shine brighter in any dark night. But who wants a love like that? And who dares to love as such? All that forever? Would you dare?.…………. ……. All that and many things more but not anymore. I now believe that only love cannot make anyone do everything. Neither everything is dearly loved nor it is reciprocated gracefully. Some loves fall away as the leaves of the autumn; some fires are washed by little waters; and some boats never make it to the shore. If love is truly your goal and the goal of your love is love itself then the pillars of love shall always remain true. Be good to the people you meet. And be good to those who hurt you as well. Someday, sometime, it will make sense to everyone.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

DEAR YOUNG DEMIGOD, Your destiny awaits. Now that you have discovered your true parentage, you must prepare yourself for a difficult future—fighting monsters, adventuring across the world, and dealing with temperamental Greek and Roman gods. I don’t envy you. I hope this volume will help you on your journeys. I had to think long and hard before publishing these stories, as they were given to me in the strictest confidence. However, your survival comes first, and this book will give you an inside look at the world of demigods—information that may help keep you alive. We’ll begin with “The Diary of Luke Castellan.” Over the years, many readers and campers at Camp Half-Blood have asked me to tell the story of Luke’s early days, adventuring with Thalia and Annabeth before they arrived at camp. I have been reluctant to do this, as neither Annabeth nor Thalia likes to talk about those times. The only information I have is recorded in Luke’s own handwriting, in his original diary given to me by Chiron. I think it’s time, though, to share a little of Luke’s story. It may help us understand what went wrong for such a promising young demigod. In this excerpt you will find out how Thalia and Luke arrived in Richmond, Virginia, chasing a magic goat, how they were almost destroyed in a house of horrors, and how they met a young girl named Annabeth. I have also included a map of Halcyon Green’s house in Richmond. Despite the damage described in the story, the house has been rebuilt, which is very troubling. If you go there, be careful. It may still contain treasures. But it most assuredly contains monsters and traps as well. Our second story will definitely get me in trouble with Hermes. “Percy Jackson and the Staff of Hermes” describes an embarrassing incident for the god of travelers, which he hoped to solve quietly with

If you want to love him, you have to wash away the past. Only you can do this, my dear. You must go away, to the sea, perhaps. And you must bathe away all the fears and all the hurts given you by your history.

Dear Diary, Today I met a boy He stole my heart... And won't give it back

The tragedy of love is that it never ends.

I was born blond, but I grew out of it Nobody took man from woman Nobody took male from female Nobody took boy from Tom Boy Nobody took he from she I'm as sexist as he is

This evening : Fischl and Mayreder debated on Secession, Fischl pro and Mayreder contra - primarily against Olbrich. It's all very well to dismiss him, to criticize - but just try doing better yourself dear Mayreder ! It was the fourth time that M. had called on us in the last few days, and we're heartily glad to be rid of him. Nobody misses him, myself least of all. - I wonder if he's still fond of me? He's very taken with the Secessionist painters, being particularly 'enamoured' - as he puts it - of Bacher, Engelhart and Klimt. Of the latter he says he can well understand young ladies falling for him "in a big way". Oh yes, that was fun : while Kuehl, Klimt, Mayreder, Jettel etc. were here, Klimt gave me the idea of shaping my bread into a heart. I did so, then he formed a toothpick into an arrow and plunged it into the heart. He took red wine and made it flow from the would. It looked really good. He gave it to Mayreder as 'my wounded heart'. On reflection, I can see that it was a very brutal joke and I regret it, for at the time Mayreder gave me a look that went straight through me. Incidentally, Klimt knows that M. is fond of me. He noticed - and said as much as well. I didn't deny it.

Dear College Diary, Should have poisoned the Jade water!!!!! Jade

Dear College Diary, Guy I should’ve poisoned meets Mr. Chiseled and it’s another WTF moment!   Jade

glish

Then I choked and sputtered . . .

They are the saints who gave up the joys of youth for freedom they so dearly loved.