Dear Calamity,

Entry one

Dear Diary,

I'm sorry I had to start off this way but it's really starting to bug me. Why do people do drugs? It doesn't make sense to me. I guess I get that they are trying to escape a bad past or a dystopian society but, why do they do it to have fun? Why can't teenagers have fun without drugs anymore? I almost feel like I, and my small group of friends, are the only ones who don't do drugs and still have fun. Seeing people destroy their lives truly makes me grieve for the world ahead. I can't walk through my high school without overhearing someone's conversation about that crazy party they had where they drove to McDonald's and Taco Bell and fell asleep everywhere. I

I paused and held my fingers over the keyboard. What was I to go on about next? I felt like I had ranted too long about drugs and I would later bore my future self. Most of these entries I have written were rants on how society is failing and the world is turning into a giant hopeless hell. I had to vent to someone I suppose. Even if I have never met the reader, it still feels good to jot down my disgust for myself. I keep my diary online for a certain purpose. One of which include the possibility of me getting new laptop.

I stretched my fingers and looked at the tiny time display in the corner of my laptop screen. 6:15 a.m. Why does time always seem to move slow when you need it to move fast? I looked up at the unfinished entry and sighed. It was shorter than I anticipated. Normally my entries are at least a page long. This entry was just sad and small. I clicked the File button on my Word Document and scrolled down until I came across the familiar "Save As" button. The "Save" screen pulled up and at the bottom I typed into filename "1/27y2" and saved the unfinished file. I exited out of Word and closed my laptop. I sat on my black leather desk chair for a few seconds longer before getting the courage to stand. I stood and stretched my arms high above my head. I looked out of the window that sat behind my desk saw that the sky had turned from a dark blue to a light purpley pink color. The sunrise in the morning always made me believe just for a second, that there was hope in a new day.

I stepped out of the bathroom and allowed the steam to billow out into the hallway. The picture frames hanging on the walls fogged up slowly, moisture clinging to the clear glass. My mom was really into family pictures since she was a professional photographer. We get our pictures done once at least every season. We have had them done in practically every type of weather; In the snow, in the rain, in a tornado, you name it. We have probably done it. I swear she is trying to kill us. My father on the other hand, was a video game designer. He worked on graphics with several different companies which had him traveling a lot.

I walked down the hall back to my now bright bedroom. The sunshine from the window created almost a spotlight effect in the middle of my room. I could feel like something more than an Extra here. (If you don't know what an Extra is, it's a theater term for a filler character who doesn't really have a speaking part).

I looked through my dresser and closet and eventually decided that dressing up wasn't necessary. I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from one of my favorite bands. I returned to the bathroom to dry my hair and do what little talent I had with makeup. The mirror had cleared up from the fog by this point so I could get a better look at my identity. My dry Sandy blonde hair cascaded past my shoulders. It was pulled into a small part on the right side which took two weeks of training to accomplish. I used to have a middle part but some feedback from people told me it needed to change. My greying, bluish, greenish eyes almost looked innocent today, even though they had seen too much for my age.

"Rinoa!" I heard my name being called from downstairs. I tilted my head towards the door slightly to hear a bit better.

"Yeah?" I yelled back half expecting what the answer might be.