Okay, I just got the best idea ever for a RP.

Dear Diary,

Do you remember when I first got you? I do. Mom came into my bedroom while I was chatting on MSN with Emmy. She said that I was having trouble "expressing myself" so I should write my thoughts and feelings down. I never thought I'd actually get around to it, but here I am, day after day, writing everything down inside your butterfly imprinted pages. Does that sound eloquent? Eloquent. What a great word.

Anyway, I talked to my dad today. He's been gone for almost three years. Can you believe it? I've been writing to you for more than three years! Ehm...sorry. I got side-tracked. Yes, I talked to him today. He's got a new girlfriend now. It hurts to know that he really doesn't love Mom anymore. I walked into Mom's bedroom today, and she was crying, and her brown curls were bouncing up and down when she took a breath. I know that, because I went and sat down beside her on the bed and put my arms around her, and she just cried. It made my shirt wet, but to tell the truth, I really didn't care. I didn't cry, because Mom needed someone to be strong for her, and if I wasn't, who would be? It seems like we switched places for a little while; me the parent, and her the child. I wonder if Dad knows what he did to her?

In science today, we were dissecting cows eyes. It was gross. One of the boys (Anthony) tried to go after Emmy with a piece of eyeball, but she managed to get away, and he got in trouble with the teacher. It was really funny, watching him go all red and then white. Our teacher was REALLY mad. He got sent out of the class and everything. If he had come after me, I would have punched him really hard, because he knows I don't like slimy things, and I'm not afraid to hit a boy. Everyone knows that though, so they don't bother me anymore. I think that's a good thing.

Except when it comes to the boys liking girls. Whitney likes a boy, and he likes her back. It's unfair that I have to like the one boy that's afraid of me, just because of what I did to Forrest in the third grade. True, he was standing right beside Forrest while I punched him for making Emmy cry, but that was the third grade! Sometimes I don't like being a tough girl. Maybe I should buy a skirt. Maybe that would make him like me.

Yours truly, a very tired,
Annabelle

>>>>>>>

Dear Annabelle,

I remember the day you first received me well. I remember the feel of your fingertips when they ran across my blank pages, and the freedom when you opened my bound cover. I remember the scratch of your purple gel pen when you wrote out your happiness when you told me about your Christmases, and the painful scrawl when your beloved cat died. I don't think you have any trouble expressing yourself, as I have watched you grow through the words and feelings you spun across the paper in my binding. And yes, eloquent is a great word.

To be exact, you started writing in me three years, two months and thirteen days ago. If you turn back to your very first entry in the very first edition of your diary, you will see that I am correct.

I am deeply sorry that your father has left your family to go gallivanting with another female, but I cannot say that I am surprised. From what you told me, he would get home late and stumble up to his room often. I surmised that maybe he was off with other women, drinking spirits and such. It is a tragedy to know that he has hurt your mother so badly, but I am very proud of you for allowing her to lean on you during this time of trial. You are very strong, Annabelle, but never forget that there are many people who love you just as much as, or more than, your father. And you mustn't be strong for her all the time. I am sure she would not want you to be giving up your childhood for her.

I for one do not like slimy things; they make my pages wet and then the ink runs and they adhere together. Then you must use a dryer and try to separate the offending papers. This Anthony sounds ridiculously immature for his age; I am not shocked that your teacher disciplined him so. As for your method of disciplining him, I would suggest just using your words. That is what I would do.

I have heard that boys at your age are immature, and so you should not be offended by the directions of their fancies. I should not think I am the best at giving advice on this particular subject; perhaps you should ask your mother for advice.

Love,
Diary.