Real dudes keep diaries!

Dearest Diary,
You smell of farts, your hair is all frizzy, your voice reminds me of wet grass in the back of my throat, your hand gestures are more awkward than Barney (the purple dinosaur) arm wrestling Mr. Rogers (the dead child lover (as an act of clarification I will restate the parentheses with which this parentheses is within; the child lover who is now deceased)), your breath reeks like an ocean caked and frosted with seagull turds and your jokes are so bad that my eyes, for some reason, dry up to the point in which they closely resemble raisins.  But I love you anyway.  The end.