If I understand the fine science of journal writing correctly, its primary utility is to allow one to complain at lengths about things that they can’t really change, until the journal is discovered and read by a third party, whereon it provides valuable insight on why the person who writes the journal acts so miserable all the time. This isn’t exactly my style, as I am quick to remedy ill feelings with something pleasant to eat, drink, or smoke. But I’m willing to give complaining a try—just this once—to see how it works out. For you Journal! Just for you.
I can’t complain about our progress. We continue to hack a path of justice and freedom through these savage lands, though at the moment it seems to be justice over spiders and freedom from wild boars. We did kill some dragonkin at a river crossing, that was fun. Oh, and I found a nifty new cold iron sword. All of these things have made my days brighter. I’ve also come into quite a bit of gold thanks to the swift payment of bounties on the bandits, beasts, and various other ne’er-do-wells we’ve met and dispatched in our travels. I think I’m going to use my share to upgrade ole’ Springsnap, even if I’m not sure I’m up to the mechanics of it. There are many pieces on this monster that Dad never quite told me what they do. Hopefully intuition will be enough to keep me from destroying it.
But wait, I was aiming to complain! And what shall I complain about? Well what do all men complain about—women!
Sasha, should this journal have fallen into your hands, let me say again how much I respect and adore you. You are a prince among men, a scholar and a gentleman, blah blah blah, please don’t kill me. The ink I bleed next is spilt from a loving heart (I’m also poetic. You wouldn’t hit a poet right? Right?).
Anyway, I’m convinced Katya is going to get me killed. Not on purpose, no, that would be too easy. That would be merciful by comparison. No, she’s going to get me offed by accident. She’s going to bat those pretty eyes, smile that little smile, and I’ll say something pleasant to her. She’ll go tell Sasha I’m bothering her, and then suddenly I’ll have a pointy object jammed through my ribcage. I’m not sure I’ll fault him for it really, he’s only being the protective older brother to her innocent maiden. But being dead, yeah, that’s going to be unfortunate. It might put a damper on my plans for a long and fantastic life.
See, the problem with Katya is that she’s too perfect in all the least perfect ways. She’s pretty, and kind, and loving and warm and all those other flowery adjectives…but she’s also shy, and sensitive, and constantly saying things I don’t think she really means because it would be impolite to tell the truth. She’d rather lie her way through a smile than give you the frown you deserve. She’d rather lead you on for weeks by accident than take the time to tell you off on purpose. And if I didn’t like her so much, I’d never let her get away with it!
So what do I do? I’ve been trying to be the ‘good’ man…but that’s not really me. At best I’ll make it to the ‘acceptably decent’ man…which I think is well below her standards. I can try to give up on her, but that’s not really feasible, because I see her all the time, I hunt with her, I even bathe with her (though not with her knowledge of course…heh heh—oh Gods, I’m joking Sasha, please don’t murder me.) So what’s a boy to do? Maybe I could learn to cook. She does seem to love bacon…
Dad, if you were here, I would ask you what to do. And you would say, “Lem, you’re a fine boy, but you’re not meant to date her. Your legs are too long and your cheeks are too fuzzy. Girls round here are looking for more than someone to twirl them round the dance floor or toast a mug of ale with…they’re looking for someone they can grow old with—someone who will be there for ‘em. I love you m’boy, but that’s never going to be you. As good as you are, you’re not what a woman wants.”
Ugh…now you’ve made me depressed. Way to go journal…way to go…