I have learnt a super duper triple important lesson.

I, Anne, promise to NEVER EVER bring my diary to camp ever again. I came back from camp yesterday, and when I took out my diary, it was wet. Panicpanicpanic. And now, the ink's all smudged, but I can still read a little of it. But thank God, letters and pictures are a-okay. But, my diary's wet and ugly. I'm keeping it, but I have to find a new proper one, since I'm almost done with that book. I am feeling so stupid.

And because I don't want to reminded about my stupid idea to bring my diary to camp, I refuse to write on that crumply diary. So here I am, dying to write a personal emotional entry, scrambling around the house looking for a notebook I can decorate and probably turn into a diary. But I found nothing that's up to my standard. I just wanted to scribble on my wall, and lock my room up forever. Yes, I'm needing one that urgently. Why does my diary get wet at this point of my life, where I'm all ready to scribble and talk about what's going on in my life and actually remember to tell my grandchildren.

See the importance of a diary now? It allows me to write with feelings, read again and again once in a while. The funny entries, the entries I had when I was pissed, and was rash, really, it helps me reflect. And it'd be really cool to actually let my grandchildren read it next time.

Why did I even want to bring my diary to camp? ARGH. I mustmustmust get one as soon as possible or I will just die of not ranting. I know I have a blog, but I want my diary ): I'm sorry, World. I'm having a really bad day without a diary.