Retro Roots. Modern Obsessions.
Before nice guys found Reddit to complain and incels crowned Andrew Tate their king, there were diaries—Hallmark-purchased, filled with scribbled declarations of love and martyrdom that only existed in my head. This isn’t just teenage longing; it’s a masterclass in unearned heartbreak, the myth of the Last Romantic. Or maybe…just the Lost one.
A lover of Love. A pen for a friend. And poems that kept me breathing when I couldn’t speak. Another four pages from the diary of a dreamer, awakening one cringe at a time.
The romantic is dead. In his place: a vigilante, a prophet, a ghost in the city’s gutters. This is grief in a mask—and the mask cracks.
A pastel Hallmark diary. A fake Gothic intro. Sad boy poetry so dramatic it should’ve come with a sticker warning. This is where my teenage cringe begins—one page at a time.
Genex Geek 