by Thornshackle

Created on: November 21, 2009

"My, you're getting fat" I commented looking over at my diary; which merely belched by way of a reply. "I didn't realize I was letting you eat up that much of my life, I marveled, still looking at the fuzzy, midnight blue colored, hard-bound, bloated creature that was my diary. So stuffed had it become from devouring every little tidbit of gossip, and gripe from my daily life, that its covers could no longer quite close properly; and not only that, but by the look of things, the pages themselves were beginning to wrinkle and crease from fat lines. My diary was so fat that it could not sit up straight upon my night stand, and now sat on the floor barely supported by the legs of same said night stand, which in turn had to lean against the wall for support. "Well" I demanded, most expectantly "What have you to say for yourself?"

My diary began to snore. The corresponding sigh I let out right then was the very definition of dejected. How had this happened, I wondered yet again. I really didn't think I was over feeding or rather informing my little-well large now-inner thoughts monger.
Seeking solace for both memory, and ego, I dashed across the room to my night stand, which by now was just barely holding its own, what with having to support the weight of the clearly gorged book at its feet; opened it solitary drawer, and pulled out the owners manual for my diary.

I must have spent an hour at least poring over that thing: All twelve pages of it; and nowhere, NOWHERE did I find anything on what to do if you feel you might have accidentally over fed your diary. I even tried dialing the toll free number to the customer service center listed on the back of the owner's manual. However all I got was the run-around via a badly accented voice speaking what might, in some parallel universe have been considered English, which offered series after series of disorienting questions in that same unintelligible monotone, until about a half hour later-and that wasn't even including the twenty-five or so minutes they had me on hold, subjecting me to a mellow sax band mutilating various hits of the Bee Gees an hour I gave up, terminating the call with a forceful press of the 'End Call' button. Somehow, though, I did not find that in the least bit satisfying. The biggest problem with cell phones is that the buttons are too well cushioned to provide you with a satisfactory hang up which you are angry with the person(s), or organization you just hung up on. At that moment I really

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