I have come to the conclusion that it’s in my best interest to be honest with you, my dear friend and room inspector. Though I’ve been hiding my true feelings, I must admit that I’m very worried about the upcoming room inspections of Molson Hall. While I’m not concerned about you finding something that would violate the Upper Residence lease agreement (you will come to find that I’m a stickler for the rules!), I do worry that you may stumble upon my diary and—if I’m not present at the inspection—be tempted to read its contents. 

It would, honestly, be cruel of you to read my diary during my room check, especially since I’m not supposed to be there. My diary details my extremely lively and intense inner world, which I often hold close to my heart. In the name of transparency, I’ll tell you where it is so that you don’t have to ransack my room to find it. I believe it’s on my desk—but I can’t be certain. It should be somewhere between my kettle and microwave that also happen to be on my desk. Just so you’re prepared. 

I would appreciate if I were there while you inspected my room. That way I would be able to explain what I meant on page six of my diary when I wrote that my good friend Laura is “like a vacuum cleaner that consumes attention.” I know that we both love Laura, and though her raging narcissism can get a bit unbearable sometimes, I would never say something to her face that would hurt her. Also, I feel like I need to be there to make sure that you don’t step on my ant farm. I love seeing that little colony grow!

Truthfully, I’ve been holding on to this deep concern that the harsh, though often beautifully nuanced, nature of my diary will tarnish our growing friendship. The words I wrote in my diary are fiery, much like the brick pizza oven I store in my closet (such a good midnight snack!). My commentary is also sharp, not dissimilar to the spindle (think of the sewing machine Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger on) which I keep at the foot of my bed. While you may notice that I take some risks in my diary—creative, emotional, and otherwise—I would never be that reckless when it comes to our blossoming friendship and the safety of my room. After all, room safety is paramount. Don’t we just get each other so well, inspector?

I want to be upfront with you. No more hiding. Except from monsters and ghouls. In my diary I confess to stealing both the ice cream cart from Bishop Mountain Hall and the phallic-shaped gourds from Royal Victoria College, which I am sure you will notice all over the floor of my room. But please don’t think less of me. You have to understand—I just really love fall.  

Fine. I’ll just come out with it. I want to be there when you meet Matt, Jaime, Sam, and Rebecca—the four Concordia students currently poring over my desk trying in vain to help me with my Management homework. Yes, I know that technically you’re only allowed to have three guests in your room at a time, but they said they needed Sam for the extra brain power to truly understand the complexities of the case study. Anyways, ideally I’d be able to introduce you to them formally. 

My respect and love for you as a room inspector and confidante only continues to grow, and I just didn’t want you to be surprised by my diary’s jarring presence. I have come to accept that you may feel compelled to read it, and I hope it moves you. Just not too far, because then you’ll burn yourself on the smoke signal I set up to communicate with McConnell.