I am Shreyans’ journal. I am posting this without his knowledge. I am looking for help, guys. This guy is nuts. Do you even know how many times in a day he’d ask me stupid questions; like What am I doing with my life? Why love is so hard to find? Why do I keep going after the wrong girl? HOW WOULD I KNOW? I AM A FRIGGIN’ JOURNAL!
And did you know, he makes all his entries with a black-inked red Lamy. I mean, come on, give me some variety dude, some flavour, some ball pen action. Who uses an ink pen anyway? What year is it, 1882?
He carries me everywhere. In the dark abyss of his backpack, on the back seat of his car and sometimes even to a public restroom. Guys, I have seen so much of this guy. Quite literally.
Typos. I hate typos. But this guy, takes me for granted. No wonder, you are not getting laid dude, women like a man who can spell. Sigh!
Oh snap! He’s here. Guys, please rescue me. Break into his house at midnight, you’ll find me next to his bed. Take me somewhere far from this guy. I am sick of his stupid questions, his incessant ramblings, and his untimely writing pangs. SOS!