and was sitting at home with my chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out.
I finally stayed where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience,
and since I’m not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a “diary,”
unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit of difference.
Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t have a friend.
Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen year-old girl is completely alone in the world.
And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends.
I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me
and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom.
I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem to have everything, except my one true friend.
All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things.
We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other.
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