People don't call them diaries any more. They mostly call them journals. As far as I know, journals don't start with Dear Diary, and they don't have front pages where you write your name and the year, and then wish that you'd written it with the other pen, because this pen somehow betrayed you. Instead of elegant script and impressive loops, your name looks babyish, or maybe just too well intended. You cringe, and wonder if anyone will notice if you use a sharp blade to cut along the spine of the diary and make that page gone.
But this is the first page. There is no knife. No betraying pen. So here I go.
11 December 2010
Last night I dreamed about werewolves.