I don't know if I ever approved of or fully understood diaries as a kid. It seems like in most of the existing evidence, I apparently either felt obligated to attempt an exhaustive autobiography (key word being, of course, attempt), or tired of actual journaling in the middle of the first entry and abandoned the effort entirely until a new blank book found its way to my hands.
Don't let that make you underestimate the number of times I tried, though.
When I was six, I wrote in this fat little notebook, and for some reason, I used it to ask Future Jori questions. For example, there is one giant text-filled page that comes to mind that says, quite eloquently, "DEAR JORI, WHY IS LIFE SO WEIRD? ANSWER WHEN 8." And there's a tugboat sticker at the bottom of the page. For emphasis, I guess.
Anyway. I was just going to make a post that questioned why workweeks are so long and unending and prone to bending the laws of space/time with their bizarrely circuitous hours. But the self-questioning led me down the first grade DEAR JORI route and here we have a post that gets us nowhere.
Except to the land of dog photos. I realize it's poor quality but his true essence is difficult to capture on film. I think hoarding toys while junkily holding one captures him quite nicely, though.
