Tag Archives: Dystopian Acheologist

Tip #15: Guess Again! You aren’t writing to your target audience

January 31, 1997

Right now I am wondering who will be reading Charlotte [my diary]. When I write to Charlotte I am also sort of writing to the person that reads my diary and I was wondering who you are! Are you my children, my grandchildren, great grandchildren, etc? Or just an archeologist that found my diary or maybe you saw my diary at an antique store and bought it. I hope you are my family! It would be too embarrassing for strangers to know how bad my spelling is. Oh well, it probably does not matter, I am probably dead in your time. (If this last paragraph did not make any sense to you, that’s ok. I am not sure if I get it also.)


Dear Me,

No, we get it; you want to know who you’re writing to. Here’s the answer: Just you. Yourself. Me. Because no one else cares. I’m sure if I give this diary to my future children or grandchildren, they’ll laugh at my face and go back to watching movies on the back of their eyelids. Maybe they’ll use the pages to line the litter box of their robot puppy. Your diary will never make it to an antique store (why would it?) and if by chance some weird, dystopian archeologist finds it, they’ll probably be glad that civilization as they knew it came to an end. Your spelling alone would make them barf up their rationed GMO food and, for lack of nourishment, they’d end up eating your diary for some small form of sustenance.robot_dog_1

Whatever the case, I know that you never thought that your diary entries would be posted online for everyone who performs a causal Google search to find. Excuse me; let me speak your language: an AOL search. So sorry, but strangers can potentially read this and know how bad your spelling is. Thankfully, we have autocorrect in the future so I can pretend that my spelling got better over the years (hint: it didn’t).

But that’s okay! Where’s the fun in keeping your diary hidden in your parents basement and not laughing with/at your former self? And what better way than to put it on the internet where all form of privacy ceases to exist? Honestly, I’m worse than the prospect of your mom reading your diary.

Love,

You