Dear Diary

My Patreon is live

I finally figured out what I want to share on Patreon, so it’s officially open to the public. So far there’s only one tier, but I plan on having five. It’s just that most of the things I want to offer in the coming four make little sense with my current level of engagement. Admittedly all of it feels like screaming into the void these days. We be tryin though.

Anyway here’s the link. I’d love it if you check it out and maybe even subscribe? First, and currently only, tier is $3. It may become lower, but it won’t become higher.

Dear Diary

thinking about a new journal layout

Let me get this out of my system:

I hate the way I edited photos for this post, but it’s been 🤌🏻a day🤌🏻 and I can no longer be arsed.

Moving on.

I’m playing with the idea of going back to one big book of everything instead of separate thematic, because the separate ones always get out of hand. I start with a media journal/ commonplace, then I decide I want a separate cp because where do I put quotes and thoughts unrelated to books and movies, then I start a friggin food diary, then I decide that I want a languages journal, a side jobs journal, a makeup journal, fashion, food, and I also have morning pages/ dream journal and a planner, and my junk book and ahdh uhhBBB chdjebdh *explodes*

*takes a deep breath*

So I think I’m going to go back to my original “system” of about three – it’s never one anyway – and a sketchbook.

In my junk book I played with planner/ bujo part of what it might look like when I end up merging it all in one place. The spreads are reversed, but so far I have:

1st spread (second photo) is a monthly calendar and tracker of things like sleep and moods. Once I merge the media back into this (after I finish my current reading and watching notebook) I will have columns for watched and read under the tracker (where I currently have senseless text). The tracker will also have a different colour for each thing I’m tracking.

2nd spread (top photo) is a weekly grid of very short daily overview so that the days don’t run away from me, a weekly habit tracker of things I’m cultivating/ need reminders on, and after that a running task list for the week, with dates marked if necessary, maybe highlighted in a different colour if for job.

After that it’s just regular catch-all pages of my usual journalling, commonplacing, quoting, idea lists, etc. I am thinking of also just using it as a junk book as well. But a junk book for me is something I always carry with me. Up to this day – Lord is merciful – I have never lost one, but it’s always out in the open on my desk at work, for example. And I’ve been getting a biiiiit personal in my regular entries lately, and people are strange, you know. So maybe junk will remain separate as always, but then I would have to potentially put calendar and running weekly there, so I never lose sight of my to-do list.

Tarot journal, at least of spreads for others, will also stay separate.

Morning pages will also stay separate, because it’s a very specific type of journalling.

Make-up book has the potential of being merged, but it will be a while, because the notebook I have for it currently is thick. Thicc.

Recipe/ cooking will stay separate.

I am unsure what to do with side jobs, because technically it’s an income registry. I might just merge that one with my spending journal, which is basically a ledger, and will stay separate from all others forever.

I’m running out of time to write – need to drive home – but for now I have:

Definitely separate:

  • Tarot for others;
  • morning/ dream;
  • spellwork;
  • recipe/ cooking;
  • ledger;
  • sketchbook.

And that’s already six, which strongly speaks in favour of keeping junk as part of regular. Another thing that might work is make sure I keep the junk books very thin (12-24 pages) or very small (A6 and smaller), which will make me rotate through them at the speed of one per week lol. I am not yet sure why I think that would work better than a thicker notebook. I will ask my brain later.

Might even journal about it.

And I will also need to pick a tagging system for the Big Book of Everything and stick to it. Which seems impossible right now.

Dear Diary

how to journal.

Recently I shared something non-consequential and non-personal out of my journals with my best friend and my brother (we have a group chat). For the sake of the narrative, I’ll modify the dialogue, but all of it is still true.

Look what I found, I said. Pays to be an anal-retentive journaller of ages.
Woah, my friend said. You’re not a journaller. You’re a fucking chronicler of ages.

And I continued thinking about it on the backburner, and I do believe it is true. I am more of a chronicler than a journaller, ages or not. Even when it comes to writing down my days in a notebook that will, in all likelihood, never be made public, most of the time I look at it through the prism of events happening around me and a certain degree of rationale.

I did that. This happened. The smallest shit annoyed me, here’s ten pages of solid reasoning why (because I’m perfect, and everyone else is not). I thought this. Had a phone talk with B, B was sad. I didn’t think this. My cats are cute. Here’s a train ticket. F called. I don’t think I want to meet them. They don’t feel well, though. I read this. I sympathise with this character. He’s a murderer. More shit happened. O called. Spoke for four hours. Here’s a brief narrative. A croissant sticker. Here’s another ten pages why everyone sucks, but this time I suck too. Act of terror. Thoughts on news reporting. A bus ticket. A tea tag. Ten thousand things inside my mind that I need to dump somewhere to find three minutes of peace. Supermarket receipt. Museum pamphlet. To do list. Habits to work on. Derp cat sticker. Two pages of thoughts on neofascism. Three pages of plans on my impending move to the woods. Five pages of thoughts on why this singer’s music is like a balm to my everything, yet that singer’s music gives me actual physical nausea. Random thought of why I am glad such and such is no longer part of my life.

I am not the one for feelings. I have said so repeatedly and will say so again. I don’t do feelings well unless it’s something physical, so all my acts of love – which I am likely to refer to as ‘keen interest’ – have always been that – acts. There’s the obvious physical act of desire. Then there are the less obvious acts of listening so intently (while looking like I’m on another planet), I end up knowing you better than you know yourself. Which is fine, your secrets are safe with me, as I’m not the one to talk. (You may wanna watch how often I journal though.) Then there’s remembering of the littlest things – not the big ones though, like the names of your family and importaint dates, these take me a long-arse while. I still sometimes pause to think to remember the correct birthdates of my brother and my best friend, arguably the two closest people in my life.

I mean the littlest things, the things that you wouldn’t connect until I told you they’re connected. And I probably never will. The smallest things, like you liking the I dunno, vibe of a summer camp ten thousand moons ago, and me finding out everything about that summer camp to make sure that we catch that vibe in a cafe somewhere. Like you casually saying you hate two colours combined together – I’ll do everything possible to avoid the combination or stir you away from it if it’s in our path. You hate a band – you’ll never hear it. You like the soup – you’ll have it again, but not too often. You don’t like cacti – say less. You’ve been searching for a book with a certain mood – I’ll be searching for it too.

It’s not to say that I go out of my way to please somebody. I don’t love bomb, and I don’t keep a roster of ‘all the things I’ve ever done for _____’. If I remember them, it’s because I’m like a fucking elephant with the vast majority of things that pass through me (except dates and names), plus I keep a record, as we have stated above. It’s just the way I’m… built? A flaw in the design. It doesn’t matter if you’re a friend, a lover, or even a coworker I find pleasing – I keep shit in mind, and I make sure to deliver you your sticky notes once every two months because you will forget, and I will not offer you anything sugary once you mention you’re on a diet.

I am aware of what and who you follow on instagram. I have a map of your interests in my brain regardless of the strength of our connection, and if we’re not close enough for me to barge in with a suggestion, but I still want to give it to you, I’ll manipulate a conversation or a situation to go a certain way so I can do it. Because I know it will be helpful. And you will find it a better alternative. But I am not a blunt force.

Also, I am aware how this design flaw of mine can take on an intrinsically sinister tone. Which is why when I have a fall-out with somebody, especially if it really was their fault, I try my damnedest hard to pretend they don’t exist.

Because I remember every single thing you dislike or find painful as well.

There’s a person in my life who always finds pink marshmallows and mint candy on their desk. And I make sure to always speak to them in the language they dislike most.

Like I said. Design flaw.

But back to the feelings. I don’t really talk about them or write about them. For a while – and sometimes still – I just believed that I don’t have them. Maybe they’re there, but it’s really hard to dig them out. “Oh you just habitually repress them” – no, I don’t. I do not. There’s- It’s all in the head, you know. I understand feelings. I can express them when expected. I just don’t get them.

I think this shit is called masking. Masking of what, though, I don’t know, because even by a generous margin of error I don’t pass the assessment for autism. Psychopathy is a little bit closer, but still doesn’t cut it. It’s true that I have a weak moral compass, though. It’s all very grey from where I stand.

What I’m about to say is obvious as fuck, but we process things through ourselves. Some of us quicker with better – no, easier – discernment, others slower. Me, I’ve always mucked around in piles of shit trying to find reason behind literally everything. It’s good that I’m moderately quick-witted, otherwise I’d be fucking paralysed most of the time by the perplexity of the degree of, I dunno, rudeness. And again, it’s not that I am offended or frightened or saddened by rudeness, and even though I’m a damned narcissist, it’s not a ‘why me?!’ narrative unless you’ve really tried to make it about me yourself – I just need a valid reason why. And there’s never a valid reason why, is there?

But I am not obsessed with logic. I’ve always enjoyed bouts of completely illogical shit. Something doesn’t have to make sense for me to enjoy it. The absurd is fun. Chaos is fun. Order is fun, too, but it’s a different type of fun.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I started therapy recently because my psychiatrist recommended me I do. I suppose the therapist saw too that I need it, because at first she was hesitant to see me, because she didn’t know if she’d have a window, but after first session she put me on her schedule. I am not against therapy. It helps many people. It saves lives. I suppose my main problem with therapy is that I’m not really a talker. I’ve aways found it easier and faster to type things. Also talking feels like complaining ever more so than writing things down. And I also don’t know what to say. I know I’m not expected to say anything in particular. That doesn’t help. And I also jump from subject to subject, because I’ve got all the tabs open, all the time. Three of them are playing music, two more a podcast, one a video with autoplay switched on, a couple are frozen, and others have a limitless “open()” going. What other metaphor can I use to make sure we all understand how loud it is in my head? It’s not a narrative of brilliance, mind you, there’s some quacking sounds, and a farting joke in there deafening everything else more often than not.

Anyway I told my therapist that I keep a journal, and that I’ve always written things down, but I don’t think we’re on the same page as to what journalling means to me and to her. All my notebooks are essentially junk books. I never cared to keep them pretty. Sometimes – okay, most of the time – I have attempts at chronology, and if there’s anything particularly important that happened, I might write a page number or a date on the last page as a really lame ‘index’, but that’s it. When I have access to a printer, the amount of photos might increase. Do I reread my journals? Not purposefully. Do I keep them? Obsessively. Are they of any use to anybody? Hardly. Do I talk about my feelings? Maybe of annoyance and lust and boredom. Do I find them therapeutic? Only in the sense of closing a couple of open tabs.

Plus it’s important to remember that ever since I had access to a computer – and the internet, gods the internet – I’ve also kept a file or an online log/ journal. Last time I tried to summarise all the pages into one file was in … 2009? At that point the file was somewhat under 1500 pages long. Default line spacing, font size 12 I believe. No double spacing between paragraphs, no page breaks. Obviously some of what I’ve written was lost in hard drive crashes and favourite journalling services going down. And that’s just journalling, my attempts at novel writing and poetry (ugh) and short stories aren’t part of 1500 pages.

I remember telling my mother the amount, and she was both impressed and horrified.

I used to have a small site dedicated to my journals with some scans and pictures of my books – which is how I found that image that I sent to my brother and my best friend, by looking through an offline archive of that site – anyway, yes, I had a site because I somehow found myself part of an online community of journallers, and keeping an online journal of your offline journals was a thing. I remember my best friend at that time trolled me about it, and well I can’t really disagree with the trolling. Keeping sites (Instagrams, Twitters, Youtubes, whatever) for journals still is a thing, and I’m still vaguely part of that community. It’s enjoyable, what can I say. A completely different way of navel-gazing, which is somehow therapeutic from the mouths of most women and marginalized, and increasingly annoying and preachy from the mouths of the middle class and up basic bros who discovered The Daily Stoic Journal (which, by the way, is not all that bad). Anyway, the site was called ‘Patient History’, because I was in my late teens or early twenties, and I thought I was clever. Though somehow I still like the word play in this one – because what’s more patient than a notebook?

I no longer remember where I was going with any of this, but if you’re still here, impressive! We’re pushing 2000 words. If you’re that far gone, may I persuade you into keeping a journal of your own? I know so many people want to start journalling, but they don’t, because they think it should be some kind of a big monumental thing, but it’s not. Sometimes it’s just a page with ‘god this shit sucks’ written on it in the fanciest of fonts with a brush pen marker. Other times it’s a purrito sticker with mentions of an act of terror around it. Then there’s a todo list with a candy wrapper.

Give it a try.

Dear Diary

invariably unhinged

In hindsight I should have named this blog ‘the quiet lunatic’, because the degree of my radicalism varies depending on the subject and on whom you ask, but the degree of my lunacy doesn’t. I mean, obviously there are worse cases. I’m lucid, for one. Quite self-controlled (and self-assured), for another.

And something’s telling me that amidst all the posts gently alluding to me not being fully right in the head, I should note that in no way do I glamourise mental disorders or illnesses. Silver linings, yeah, sure, but were I not medicated, I wouldn’t be here now writing this post. And my “case”, as one could call it, is really not all that bad. Pretty mid, tbh. So no, I’m not glamourising. But in the words of cliches, we’re all fighting difficult battles, and talking the talk that I talk and walking the walk that I walk is one way of not losing mine.

Maybe once I really lose it, this shit’ll help the professionals to bring me back somewhat. That is, if I see the signs and tell someone where to find the narrative.


I celebrated first Christmas by catching a cold and staying in bed. One ought to build traditions in my age, and it looks like this is becoming mine. Last year I got violently feverish on New Year’s Eve and spent the entirety of my hard earned PTO trying to tell up from down. I needed a vacation from that vacation. *badumtss* This one’s not so much hard as it is annoying. And I’m not off, I’m working from home. But it’s the end of the year, and the industry’s dead, or at least the segment I’m in. I’m not worried. It will be back screaming come first week of January.

Suddenly I feel very sleepy, which is an undeniable plus of having a respiratory infection, so I shall drag my weary carcass to bed.

Dear Diary

the only thing pushing me forward today is the thought of late night ramyun.

I even put the package next to me on my desk. My beacon of gentle soft light, guiding me forward. Oh, how I will feast on it. It, and the solitary chicken sausage that I didn’t eat yesterday. Might add an egg. Should have got two packs of ramyun, now that I think of it.

And afterwards I will cook pasta napolitana to feast on the next day.

And tomorrow night it will be time for teriyaki noodles.

You should know by now that I have a thing for noodles. People doubt my ability to subsist on various types of noodles for days, weeks, months, possibly years – but they really shouldn’t. Who are they to deny the mighty noodle its versatility?

Oh I hope I have garlic.

In other news, I need to stop by the filling station on my way back home. “The”, because I really only go to a particular one these days. Nights, rather. It’s such a tiny errand, but for some reason it takes an unreasonable amount of convincing each time I have to do it. It’s not the money, it’s not the time. On some particular harsh winter nights it might be the cold, but it’s not like it’s an ordeal by any means. I was actually having a discussion with me just about now, trying to postpone it for one more day, but I have a quarter of a tank left, and I’ve got some driving in rush hour to do tomorrow.

Also, we city folk should stop calling these traffic jams rush hours – or even traffic jams, to be honest. Surely there’s a gradation of severity, but by no means is it a rush hour.

Here’s a random tip for you, by the way – fill up your tank at night, or whenever it cools down. Gas is sold by volume, and it also expands when heated. I doubt it’ll help you buy a house, but every bit counts. Also if you fill up at a self-service station – I don’t – don’t forget to raise that hose and let every little bit trickle down to your tank. Again, it won’t help you buy a house. But every bit counts.


By now I’m just staring at my monitor with a blank expression.

Hmm. I wonder if the filling station sells ramyun. Oh I could have two packs then. Let’s not get our hopes up, though.

OK, I intend to leave the office on the dot, so I better start clearing out.