"Sometimes, I get a mad urge to run after a randomly picked stranger, sure that our souls have been spun together, entwined and hovering on the brink of fate, being decided by the spinning opalescent dice...screaming 'Fuck me, Fuck me!'"
- Deianra

Haven't we all, haven't we all. Through the Buchanan Street of my mind, her eye will catch mine, an intense sparkle like one thousand diamonds will draw me to her. Her name will be Esmerelda - a very foolish name, yes, but names have no place here. She will have breasts the size of balloons (blown up ones, before you get any bright ideas) and will have dark brown eyes to go with her dark brown hair. Yes, she will be slightly older, just a tad, we're not talking decades here but my mere presence will make her go weak at the knees with desire. We shall converse about many things, whilst flirting quite openly with one another, until we cast aside our Moet And Chandon and indulge in a rather short but frenetic bout of shagging. After that, she will let me roll over and fall asleep, making sure I'm not on the "wet patch" before letting herself out. Even though it's her luxurious apartment. But still...

No, no, I'm not that much of a bastard and penning erotic stories has never been my forté. No, madam! My writing eye is solely for the judgement and dissection of people and occasionally, diaries. Cast aside lasciviousness, out damnable lechery - there is no place for you here. Instead, indulge me in one more tangent, let us leave this merry-go-round of semen stains and lusty Latinas.

A simple Compare And Contrast question here. Compare current Deianra to long-ago Mr. Cadbury, ignoring the one obvious difference of sex.

I would have been in what we call 3rd Year of Secondary school. My main occupations were computer games (no change there, then), the rockin' music of Deicide and Megadeth, and throwing flame-haired midgets into porcelain sinks in Technical Drawing. My time would be spent doing the bare minimum in school, whilst taking my healthy dose of pubescence in the form of ogling a certain French teacher's breasts in those very flimsy tops she used to wear. Long walks around Strathclyde Park for want of a better thing to do, sleep-overs with the friend who had Sky enabling the world of German late-night porn and the world of Mr. Cadbury to be as one.

I was, and still could be, Shallowness Incarnate. Shallowness, however, is not bad in itself. A degree of superficiality leads to a lack of cares, and you have the time of your life! Without the impetus of stress, it seemed that being an early teenager would last forever, the days would be spent in perpetuity running around in childish persuits - but alas, now I can only look back in rose-tinted nostalgia. Such a shame, such a shame.

Deianra, on the other hand, is nothing like I was. For some reason, I can't see her as being the sort that would procrastinate, but instead as the sort that would fuss and worry and wish total control over every aspect of her life - the first few headings in her life plan are a perfect example. I don't know, I just get the feeling she is forever in a variety of persuits from her diary.

Now, if I were 15 at this precise minute, I'd probably be a dickhead and say I hated her diary - just because I was a dickhead at that age and the fact that she and I had nothing in common whatsoever. Let it resound from the rooftops! FOLLY! Deianra is a massively entertaining read, and a very talented writer to boot. Even when the subject matter is of the trivial variety, she manages to squeeze every last bit of interest out with a variety of linguistic slights-of-hand.

No matter how much and how deep I search in my soul, I cannot find anything drastically wrong - how this vexes me! It leaves me, sitting here, looking like a simpering, gushing twat, when all I really want to do is assassinate hideously shoddy writing and while there is the odd typo, it's hardly worth bothering with. Credit where credit's due - a fine diary you have there, Deianra.