Day Two: On writing

I’m still living in Castle Bitchfist. That’s almost a record for King Jeffrey.

Whoops. Anyway. Hi, diary. This is my second entry. I hope it’s better than the first. I reread the first before I started writing and I thought it sucked. I hate how writing on parchment is permanent. I wish someone would invent a button or something so I could erase my words and start over. Imagine that, a button that destroys words!

Even though I’m bad at it, I like writing. It’s interesting. It lets me put my thoughts somewhere other than in my brain, which is handy 'cause they don't do a whole lot in my brain other than bother me. You’re probably my favourite thing in the world, diary. Don’t tell my wife that, though, or she’ll dump you in the moat. She’s kind of a douche like that.

I’ve always been a writer, I guess. Not really, but, in my head. I used to invent stories and save them up for later. I’d create some fantastic tale, then share it with all my friends. I love telling stories. What’s the point of making a story if you don’t tell anyone about it?

My parents didn’t approve, though, and my friends always ratted on me. My father would cuff my cheek and give me a wedgie whenever he found out. “Dragomir,” he’d say, “you’re gonna be a guard. That’s your damn name. Dragomir the Guard. We didn’t call you Dragomir the Fucking Poofy Writer Boy. Get your head out of your butt and beat your friends with a stick, you need to work on those flimsy biceps of yours.”

I had a happy childhood, let me tell you. Lucky me that my dad only had one arm for a couple years there. His bear hugs were murder.

Sorry, diary, but I have to put you away now. I’ve been hiding you behind my back because I usually stand with my back to the wall when I'm on duty. My arms are getting stiff. I think they might be bent in a permanent cradle shape. I really need a good hiding place...

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Guard