6th of July, 2021
5:19 PM CEST
I never thought that I'd write in a diary. Like, ever. I'm usually way too lazy. Then my mom decided to buy one for herself in Tiger. (She claims that her memory is failing her and that she's getting old. And I'm like, "Mother. You're 49. In no universe are you 'old'". Predictably, she refuses to acknowledge my logic) No, not the animal. T-I-E-R. The shop. That's how it's pronounced. Confusing, I know, but it is the Danish language. The poster child for "Confusing Language". Look it up in the dictionary. I've lived in Denmark for 11 years now, (I'm 16 now) and I still don't understand the Danish language, or the people living here for that matter. Well, their ancestors anyway. One can hardly blame the modern Danes for not questioning their own language. They're all just a bunch of sheep with their excessive nationalism and creepy obsession with their flag. Why did they have to copy the English way spelling for "Tiger" (the animal) and then have an entirely different pronunciation for the word? You might as well have been original and made up your own bloody word instead of confusing the hell out of foreigners and tourists.
Fun fact: The German word "Tier" actually means "animal" in English. Interesting and interesting...er
I have such wonderful grammar, don't I?
Ignore my tedious driveling. I swear I've literally gone bonkers during this pandemic. The Covid-19 pandemic for you time travelers. (Hey! How are you guys? What's up? If you have flying cars now, I pray for your souls) We finally don't have to wear masks anymore, but still have to social distance. It's common courtesy now. If you don't do it, people will look at you weirdly until you do.
I tried to tear my own skin off with my own bleeding nails while I howled in misery. Didn't succeed. Will I try again? Have no fucking clue! I'm not mad, I assure you.
5:58 PM CEST
Oh, and the thunderstorm stopped. And I think I have OCD. Maybe a few other mental health issues that plague my not-so-innocent soul. I've witnessed a fair few traumatic events, most of which I don't even remember. The only proof I have is my fragile, unstable mind, my aversion to the male touch, and the fact that I don't remember much before the age of 13. That's why I'm writing a diary. I want to remember shit. Even the smallest, and most insignificant of details, as well as the gritty and painful.
But I'm selfish. Nobody except me (as long as I'm alive) is ever going to read this. It's for me, and me only. What happens with it after I'm gone is up to fate. I'm not even sure if I want to believe in fate, but everyone's gotta believe in something. Whether it's religion or yourself.