To Write A Diary Entry...

Marie had always mentioned about my disorganization with everything, and how I should write a diary and maybe it’ll help me remember where I keep leaving things, like the television remote, or my mobile phone. I feel I should introduce myself, but as to why, I am unsure. I am the only person that would probably want to read this, and I’m writing it, so I probably wouldn’t need too, either. Maybe it will help me release tension and help me relieve some of those things that my chest is holding so close itself. It must be better then confiding in a person. There’s no judgement, or even a mind trying to prevent itself from judging. It’s just you, and a slice of tree.
I may as well explain what my current situation is, in case someone digs this diary up from the bottom of an overloaded chest, in twenty years time, and wonders who I was and what was I rambling about. Well, I’m a thirty-four year old white male, called Stephen. Everyone calls me Parker, so I would prefer you to refer to me as that. Not that I will ever know, either way. I am an administrative supervisor for accountant firm in central London called Richard & sons. I share a flat with my girlfriend, fiancée, and future wife, Marie. The future wife aspect is really the main reason I am writing in this book. I’ve postponed doing this for a while because I’ve had no real need to. Marie bought it for me, for Christmas, last year, and I never used it. It’s a big; A4 type size and it may as well be put to some practical use, instead of sitting in the back of a cupboard, waiting to be discarded into a bin.
You may be wondering right now, exactly why my marriage to Marie has given me reason to write in here. Well, the reason is that, basically, I’m scared, really scared about commitment. You know, I even have trouble buying things I need from shops, let alone committing myself to someone for the rest of my life. Plus, the reason why I’ve started writing it now, and not before, is because we’re getting married on the tenth of March. Which is little over two weeks away, and I am, for a want of a better word, shitting myself. Luckily, our parents have offered their services and will be in charge of sorting everything out for the wedding, so, neither Marie nor I need to stress about that sort of thing before the day. All we have to do is try on the outfits and look pretty on the day, and we can go home and be happy. But, I can’t help get the feeling that I’m doing something I don’t want to do. Do not get be incorrect, I love Marie; dear god, I do. But, I don’t know if I am ready to commit myself yet. I haven’t even had a threesome yet. Not like that is really important, but there are still things I want to do with my life, and I have yet to do them, and If I am married, then, will that be the end of my life? Will I have to just settle down and just remind myself that I can’t live any more? I know this all seems so pointless, and quite selfish, but sometimes you have to consider yourself in these things. Marriage is a consideration of the hearts of two, and if one doesn’t want both to become one, then what is the point? Surely it is just denial then and I’ll be living a lie for the rest of my life. You see my confusion now? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, and if I’m not too weary that it may engulf me and destroy something I will later regret disposing of.
I guess I should tell you about my day, shouldn’t I? Well, this morning, I was awoken to the sound of some horrid techno/trance shit being forced like pulp through the wall of our bedroom, at ten o’clock in the morning by the neighbour’s son, Frank or Freddie or Frink or something horror movie name like that. Why the fuck does he need to drill that through my walls at that time in the morning? There’s one thing playing it when everyone’s trying to go to sleep, at twelve in the night, but in the morning? You’re not some bizzarly-tuned cockerel; I shouldn’t have to hear that rubbish waking me so early. It’s not even decent music, not that would make a positive difference, but if it were good, at least I wouldn’t get the urge to get out of bed, and give the boy a head injury of some kind, involving a very sharp item, possibly a poker.
I spent most of the day; scouring the Internet in hope of finding some kind of rack to hold the antique replica Victorian musket my father bought me for my birthday (last February). I haven’t a clue why he bought it for me; I’ve never expressed an interest in weaponry of any kind, let alone a quite specific model of firearm. I didn’t even play with toy guns when I was a small child, and yet somehow, I have gained an interest in Chinese armoury, unknown to me. It’s incredible how difficult it is to locate such stands; he couldn’t have bought me a harder present to display.