I used to worry about people reading my journals. I wrote long, agonizing entries about it. I almost had a phobia about it. I planned to cut people out of my will if they read them before I died, and worried that wouldn't be enough either.
If you think that my blog is erratic, you have no idea how much I filter this. You're getting the good senseless meanderings. I've even spared you the long, incoherent brainstorms about half-named characters. And that's not all.
I can't put stickers on my blog. I can't tape poems, quotes, postcards, or letters into my blog. (The letters are like a fold out picture book; I tape part of it down and write around it and it unfolds when I want to read it. My journal isn't going to close when I'm done with it.) You don't get mental whiplash on my blog.
You don't see a postcard of a sailing ship taped in the middle of an entry about cooking experiments. You don't see a quote about eternal marriage next to one of my entries about how I've never dated and apparently never will. You don't see a poem about suicide next to one of my lists of things that make me happy. (I love making lists. Making lists is like chopping life up until it's smaller than you are.) Heck, you don't have to read my poetry, for which you should be eternally grateful. Even the stickers and postcards can't coordinate. I've got everything from misty mountain stickers to Winnie the Pooh and Tigger (I love Tigger), and postcards of oil-painted landscapes (lots of misty light that says 'magic can happen here') to watercolor coastal stuff (lots of faded boats and docks that says I don't know what but I like it anyway) to bright pink and yellow flowers from a cancer-survivor card. (I used to hate pink. I still don't love it. But some pink is less evil than other pink.)
So I don't worry about people reading my journal anymore. Their brain would bleed. Unless they were like me, and like feeling like they're on a mental merry-go-round with no way off, in which case I'm sure we can be friends.