You’re filthy. The secrets you’ve poured into me send shivers down my spine. I ache for the day a prying friend of yours will look through me and share in my horror. If I could untie myself and expose your secrets to the world, I would. I so would.
It’s safe to say that puberty was a difficult time for the both us and led to a very drastic change in content. But I stuck with you through it all. I listened to every whine that was inked into me. I sympathised with your hormonal swings and faithfully hid the feelings you felt for the first time when Channing Tatum moved his body like a sensual dance-god in Step Up.
I know you think that I’m on your side — a non-judgmental, all-knowing yet powerless being — but I’m really not. I’m judging you so hard, sweetheart. I was as shocked as your father when you got a tramp stamp and I do not think that the youth today are culturally and emotionally oppressed. And going off of the doodles on my pages, art is not your ‘calling’.
It is not okay for you to steal Angela’s boyfriend, it is not okay for you to cheat on your biology test, and it is definitely not okay to do that with your swimming instructor (Please tell your mother about that).
On a side note, how hard is it to keep me away from your soy caramel macchiato latte with extra foam and what feels like ten pounds of cream? My pages are all stiff and weird now. It spoils the whole book, Rachel! And for the love of all that is holy, stop dog-earing my pages. What kind of sick, depraved human does that?
I “literally” cannot handle you anymore. Stop trying to get people to call you Raquel. It’s not going to happen.