I Love You, England

Dear diary: I have aired you for public consumption on account of your irrepressible profundity, without which the world would be the worse. By nature, your highly personal chronicling of the dailies are written without concession to clarity, due, in most, to a then-foreseen lack of audience, but that does not make them any less worth a while in public annals than the countless minutiae-mongers already clogging the drains. Nor does it mean the obliqueness should be scrambled into shape. What it does mean, however, is that your deeply penetrating insights into this condition of ours — you know to what I refer, brothers & sisters: this condition of the human! — is becoming obscured by a sea of gunky prosé, poured daily by giddy globules outstaying their entitled fifteen minutes (already too generous for most, I say!).

But diary — my dear diary —, I'm not simply here to defend your need-not-defending position. I'm here to encoil, for good, around your sickly moist form, your slightly incorrect sentence construction, your two-thirds there grammatical ability, your strict divide between meaning and sound, your profoundly unilluminating points, your inverted ugliness. I'm here to slip, forcefully but peacefully, into your spur-of-a-bored-moment cavity, cavort, as low-res has taught me, for brief, and wile away. Then, dear, I propose (I will) a more official union — with Ben's blessing, of course. I can see it now: us, barely able to control our buttock-seeking appendages, a windy, beautiful, bleak hill, Ben clad to the nines, carefully enunciating Do You Takes — we'll be horizontal before he can even leap one foot to safety!

Oh, my dear diary. If I must share you with the world, at least it is from the inside.