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It seems silly to say out loud, but I have a fear of the present.

Everything in my life is cen­tered on what’s going to hap­pen. I’m putting every­thing off. What am I wait­ing on? I don’t know. Every idea I have, every hope and dream is sim­ply some­thing else that’s waiting.

For.

What?

There’s no guar­an­tee any of the things I’m plan­ning will ever come to pass. And, for the most part, I have no con­trol over whether or not they do.

What I can con­trol is me. Myself. My reac­tion to this very moment. And what am I doing? Predominantly noth­ing.
Because noth­ing is hap­pen­ing yet. So I’m absolved from act­ing. But this abso­lu­tion doesn’t par­don me.

I should suf­fer no self-​delusion, nor abide any excuse for the utter waste of time my life is becom­ing. Free-​will, squan­dered in the mean­ing­less pur­suit of enter­tain­ment, is a far worse fate than pre­des­ti­na­tion. To squan­der oppor­tu­nity is to mur­der your dreams.

Even in the moments between the moments that change our lives, there’s a germ of oppor­tu­nity wait­ing to be exploited; time remains at its post, wait­ing to see if I’ll use every sec­ond I’m granted to inch that much closer to a des­tiny, a call­ing, a dream.

So what am I doing right now? Am I wait­ing for life to hap­pen, or am I actively becom­ing the per­son I was meant to be.

Dear Diary,

I guess some­times all you need is a lit­tle time and some perspective.

Sure, there were some rough times, like when Jack “Jacob” Shephard totally sucker punched me just as I was home free. OH MY GOD. What a tool.

Dear Diary,

It feels really good to be back to my old self again.

Ya know, it just seems silly now. What a funk I put myself in over James, when all I really needed to do was just stand up and be myself. If there’s one thing I learned from Oprah, it’s that you just can’t let a man define who you are as a person.

And who I am as a per­son is all four Horseman of the Apocalypse bun­dled up into one big, bald bag of hurt. Who only ever wanted to be loved.

Dear Diary,

Can you believe it? I mean, can you BELIEVE it?

After every­thing I’ve done. All the blood, sweat and smoke I poured into this rela­tion­ship, James just up and left me. And he took my boat! I’m so mad right now I could burst into flame. I gave that man the best thir­teen weeks of my life — minus that time I tried to get back together with Richard, the week or so I spent ogling St. Sayid and that cou­ple min­utes of bliss­ful alone time with Dezzy the Highlander.

And you know what, Diary? THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.

Dear Diary,

Everybody has a soul mate except me.

I really thought James was the one. Now he’s so mean to me. Snapping at me, mak­ing fun of my wood. I think it’s because of Kate. He’s not been the same since she started hang­ing around.

Um, hello, James, she’s called an EX for a reason?

Chris Bowler points out that blog­gers need to be care­ful writ­ers first and foremost.

While many weep and gnash teeth over the cul­ture of “con­sume and share” that per­me­ates so many sites today, the prob­lem isn’t inher­ent to plat­forms like Tumblr or Posterous or WordPress or any other con­tent man­age­ment tool; writ­ers need to write, and write well — let’s put a mora­to­rium on lazy blog­ging, shall we?

Chris Bowler: Frictionless Publishing

Dear Diary,

Sayid is such a badass. He’s just all like boom, kick, mother-​flipping SNAP. God I love him — it, I love IT.

It’s just so nice to have some­one I can depend on. And now that he’s bring­ing me Desmond King of Scots, I just know I have the upper hand on The Bald Avenger over at Hydra Island. There’s no sub­sti­tute for hav­ing good friends. Who do what you say. Without question.

Dear Diary,

You know what? I’m just about over this.

I give and I give and I smoke a lit­tle and I give some more. And what do I get? Snide remarks. Sideways looks. Brooding. It’s like I’m trapped on this island with the cast of The Hills.

Dear Diary,

They say you never for­get your first.

He was totally gor­geous, but in a slummy, farm­hand way that just makes it that much hot­ter, ya know? Dipping your pen in the com­pany ink, so to speak. The com­pany, of course, in this case, being the East India Trading Company.

Dear Diary,

Oh. Em. Gee. OMG, Diary! I did it. I totally came out to James. I just took him aside and I looked him square in the eyes and I told him — I’m the Smoke Monster.

Ya know, he didn’t even act sur­prised. He’s so cool. He was just all like, “Yeah, so.” And I was all like SWOON.

They come for dif­fer­ent rea­sons. Some want to learn their favorite rock songs, or are hop­ing to emu­late a pop icon. Some are plan­ning on careers in music, while oth­ers want to play a solo at church. Mostly, it’s kids, and, mostly, they’ve cho­sen to be here.

Dear Diary,

It just doesn’t seem fair.

After all I did for Benjamin Linus — I’m sorry, Doctor Benjamin Linus — he just runs off with Angry Rifle Lady and com­pletely ignores my per­fectly friendly offer to join Smokey John’s Other Island All-​Stars.

What a jerk.