thematically fickle

(Ten minutes or less, 250 words or less. This week, the story begins with “Dear Diary,” is set in a limousine and must include the words “missile” and “hearth.”)

Dear Diary,
I’m still trying to take off some of this weight, slogging along on the treadmill every other day. It’s miserable. My knees hurt. My hips ache. It’s boooooring. And only seven pounds off in the last month! But I do it. Yet clearly my efforts are for naught. This morning, as I lowered myself in to the limousine, my belly actually touched the bottom of the steering wheel. Touched it. As in MADE CONTACT. It frustrated the hell outta me and as I sat there, feeling the steering wheel press into my blubber, all I could do was think about Ding Dongs. I wanted a Ding Dong so bad that I coulda sworn I had a fire raging in the hearth of my stomach. I knew a pack of Ding Dongs was the only thing that would make me feel better after all these weeks of no sugar. So I said screw this! and drove like a guided missile straight to 7-11, even though I knew I would be late for my pick up and even though it was a challenge making the turns (what with my stomach impeding the steering capacity) and even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do.

I ended up sipping champagne and eating Ding Dongs in the back of the limo and thought, so this is how the other half lives. It’s nicer in the back seat, diary.
Trust me.