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Dear Diary,

It's just a diary. That's something we've probably both said a thousand times while I wrote in you. And I'm sure that for you, it was an excuse that helped wash away the guilt as you played me the way that you played me. You know what? That phrase, 'it's just a diary'? It's a big lie. It's not just a diary. For me over out here, for you, it's my life. And the line between diary and life is not cut and dried. Life blurs into my diary constantly. My diary exposes who I am as a person to the core. It's like truth serum. And I think the way you write in your diary is representative of the kind of person you are. The hardest lesson I learned in there was about friendship and betrayal. And I think the true measure of a diary is what kind of friend he is. What kind of a friend are you, diary? What kind of a friend were you to me? I wrote in you as a favor. Bro to book. Friend to friend. And I did the only thing I could do, and that was to answer the call of a book in need. You repaid that by putting a knife in my back. As far as my diary's concerned, I lost, and you beat me. No sour grapes, no bitterness. With all sincerity, I congratulate you for making it to bookshelf. But as I see it, as good as your pages where, you sold out your page numbers, you sold out your chapters, and you sold out me for a stack of bookmarks. I hope it was worth it, because those bookmarks will never be enough to buy it all back.

From Lex (a.k.a. TWATWAFFLE)