Dear Journal,
I've been jacking off for eight days now. My parents don't know. They probably think I'm dead. Haven't they called the cops? What's going on? Even as I write of my trial, my right hand won't stop. I've never tried calling for help. Being caught in this position would be too embarrassing. Please, I need this to stop.
Derrick let his pen fall out of his hand and onto the red carpeted floor. Eventually, his notepad fell off his lap. He started to cry for help, but soon covered his mouth with his left hand. No one could know about this. He saw that it was almost past midnight. Derrick's parents should be asleep, right? They were such early birds. Derrick went downstairs to grab something to eat. He practically suffocated on the food, but managed to gulp it down. He turned around to go back to his room, but at that moment opportunity must've been breaking down his door. He saw a red jacket, so long it touched the floor from the seven-foot tall coat hanger.
"This is my chance," Derrick whispered. He dashed to put on the red coat and it no longer looked like he was masturbating. Derrick grabbed his notepad from upstairs. He knew exactly who could help solve his problem.
Derrick was going on a journey to see his grandma porn star.
. • . • .
As you can see, I've given up on making serious stories.
