Dear Diary,

Okay, here’s the deal. Little miss Debra decided that I needed to write down what I was feeling about what goes on in my life. Pshaw. Like I really will all the time like she says I should. I don’t like writing out long hand. If you don’t type it on a computer your fingers cramp. Besides, I have better things to do… Not that I can think of anything at the moment.

Don’t get a big head because I’m writing in you, Diary. I’m only writing this because I’m sitting in the counseling room (which, by the way, smells like peanuts and Dr. Pepper), with Debra right there in front of me, barely four feet away, smiling as I write in your stupid pages. I’m surprised I’ve gotten this far. Okay, bye, Dia

Oops. She wants me to write more. What am I supposed to write about? “Tell it about yourself.” Okay. Um, exactly how again? “Pretend you’re talking to a trusted friend.”

Yeah. Sure, Debra.

Like I have any trusted friends.