(Notice, you are not 'Diary.' That is so childish and non-creative. Also, notice the colon: business-like [notice the pun with the colon after the colon, and notice that I know enough to use brackets inside quotes]. I may only be 18, but I know my shit. Notice it.)
This is the first entry in what will come to document my journey as I strive to get out of the dead-end town of Ferrycliffe, Maine, and as I try to win my heart's true desire: Samuel Drake. Today, I took it upon myself to track his whereabouts after work. Conveniently, our shifts both ended at the same time (nothing like getting on the good side of the Sheriff). My front desk duties done, I pretended to leave before him. Okay, actually I did leave before him. But I hid my car (so what it's really owned by my sister Sarah - when I'm driving it, it's mine) behind a corner so he couldn't see me, then followed about three car lengths behind (even though there was only one car between us - better safe than sorry). This is where I tracked him to (his is the white jeep):
Wonder what he was doing parked in front of the pharmacy. It can't be anything as horrible as medication for, shall we say, bad behavior; he doesn't do that kind of thing. Poor guy's more celibate than my parents. Besides, he didn't come out with a bag - unless he took the pills and put them in his pocket. But no one does that, so I don't think so. Maybe he was looking for his favorite Ben and Jerry's ice cream - it's strawberry cheesecake.
Tomorrow's Agenda: Investigation into the unsolved case of the missing dogs (title to come).
Should I find my life in danger, this will also act as a record of my endeavors, so that the police (hopefully not poor Sam; he'd be too heartbroken to do his job) can catch my killer.
Sincerely,
Chrissy R.
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