Welcome. Glad you’re here. I spent $27 whole dollars to make this a reality. Before you continue, close your eyes, put your hands on your heart, and take three deep breaths.
If no one told you congratulations today, let it be me. Congrats! You’re ALIVE. Approximately half a million humans die in their sleep every day, but not you. Off to a morbid start. I’m not ready to embark on a soapbox about the meaning of life (although I definitely will do that), but the fact that you are living, breathing, and reading this on a screen means you have at least a few things to be grateful for.
I need to disclaim that I am making no attempts at formality here/my writing is not undergoing any sort of critical editing. I have a disdain for adhering to “proper” grammar/syntax when I am diary-ing so I felt it would only be appropriate to stick to that standard here.
I decided I should release some of my thoughts into the abyss that is the internet.. well for a variety of reasons, but one being a harrowed phone call I had with a psychic. This is the part where you’re like “oh… she’s one of THOSE girls.” Yes, I am. Shut up and keep reading, ok.
I found this guy on account of some late night google searching about a year or so ago. I was about to quit my corporate job and was confused about everything from what I should do next? to why does human suffering exist? — I reside in this state most of the time, but have grown a fondness for ambiguity. I digress. So blahblahblah we have the call and let me just tell you this man is an absolute character. He spoke like he was souped up on a cocktail of uppers and my mind’s eye imagined him with a spray tan and an immoveable, botoxed forehead. Also for some reason I imagined him administering the call from one of those landline phones attached to a bathroom wall in a late-90s pseudo-mansion — like definitely a lot of forest green-tile and maybe some relatively off-putting wood paneling and a big bathtub that he was definitely sitting in with a glass of chardonnay adjacent to his being? These were the vibes. Long story short, this guy (who has no information about me other than my first name and telephone number) tells me I am going to “write books.. something about love.” He made a number of other assertions about me/my life that were alarmingly accurate, but when it came time for me to ask questions he decided it would be better if we saved the last twenty minutes of our call for another time. That was that. I didn’t think much about the call or his statements on my fate until a few months ago.
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was just a wee girl (my favorite assertion of this being a diary entry I wrote when I was 11 that read something like “I want to be a famous writer or poet because numbers hurt”). I’ve struggled to put these dreams into motion because of crippling self-doubt/a belief that publishing your thoughts is utterly self-important and embarrassing. As of recent, I’ve been entertaining the thought of exorcising my fear and figuring out to best create cohesive, entertaining work to release into the ether and I thought WHY NOT contact my trusted mentee the c****d out psychic for some more clarity.
This is the dramatic part of the story.
He literally up and died. According to his facebook it was “sudden and unexpected.” Perhaps I was right about his affinity for substances, but hopefully not the case. May he rest in peace.
I didn’t have any emotional attachment to this random man I spoke to on the phone once, but this lead to a tower moment (tarot card reference) where I was faced with an opportunity to rely on my own intuition. She said .. Baby, you ALREADY KNOW. Just start.
So here we are. This will by no means be my magnum opus, but rather a chance to practice and have a little fun. If you got this far, another congrats. Thank you for giving these precious moments of your life to my words.
I plan to write about.. anything/everything, but certainly lots on love. Matters of the heart are what interest me most as I am a self-proclaimed “hopeless romantic.” Although I am trying to re-invent myself to become of the hopeful sort.
If you click on the little “talk to me” in the menu you can share with me as well. I welcome friends, present lovers, future (?) lovers, past lovers, their present and past lovers, strangers, mortal enemies, anyone who may be perchance reading this — to do so.
Whoever you are, I love you.
– Jillian
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Diary heart 