For Easter I received three journals. What is a man to do with three journals? I can't help but wonder what life a man would have to lead, just to fill up these three journals. And as they rest, sleeping on their sides next to my bed, just like I do at night, their bindings seem to urge me to fill all three of them up, cover to cover. I can't help but feel that they have me mistaken for some strange device, which words pour out of like some kind of runny faucet, but I do not have the heart to tell them otherwise, or in this case, write to them otherwise. What is the etiquette one has with a personal journal? Is there some kind of procedure for addressing the journal, do I say, "Dear Journal," or is that creepy, as if I am speaking to myself, which I tend to do anyway? Furthermore, how does one say farewell to the journal, "Goodnight Journal," or does one approach it like a loved one, "Goodnight sweetheart, I shall see speak to you once again, when the gibbous moon rises in the east." Or does that cross some invisible line drawn between the animate and the inanimate?

This is all deeply troubling and of a most peculiarly fashion, indeed, I fear that these leather-bound succubi have come to drain me of all my future writings. But, if such is the case, I will drowned them with the ink that courses through my veins. I will permit them to drink their fill and when they are fat and happy, sleepy with all of their feasting, I shall strike.

What I will do, I haven't the faintest clue, so I come to you, my watchers. What is one to do while in the company of three word-starved journals?