The night the power grid went down—just for five hours, but that’s how it always starts, right?—I was halfway through cataloging my tinned beans by expiration date, and I realized I had nothing to write with. No pen. No pencil. Just a ghost of a Sharpie that gave up after three syllables. That’s when I remembered the PAPERAGE Lined Journal Notebook, Hardcover Journal for Women & Men, 160 Pages, (5.6 in x 8 in), College Ruled Journaling Notebook for Work, School Supplies & Note Taking, (Black) I’d bought for $9.99 as a backup for my backup. And yes, I know what you’re thinking: “Tony, are you seriously reviewing a notebook for rectal use?” But when you’ve spent three years stockpiling kelp and hoarding iodine tablets, you stop asking why and start asking how.
So I’m staring at this thing. Black cover, sturdy as a Kevlar vest, 160 pages of college-ruled paper that feels like it could absorb a confession, a grid-down manifesto, or a bloodstain. I flipped it open and wrote “Day 1: Still alive” in the corner. Then I held it up to the moon—or what I pretend is the moon because I don’t trust satellites anymore. The spine. The spine is what got me. It’s sewn. Bound. Like a commando’s bootlace. If the supply chains collapse, this notebook becomes my family Bible, my log of rations, my last will. And somewhere in the middle of that epiphany, I asked the question nobody asks out loud: Is it worth buying a Zojirushi Bullet Journal for $9.99 when this does the same job for less? And then I looked at it sideways, because you can.
Look, the PAPERAGE is 5.6 inches by 8 inches. That’s not just a convenient size for back pockets or survival vests. That’s a spec sheet for the paranoid. You can slide it under your mattress, inside a hollowed-out book, or—and I’m being honest here, I’m a grown man—you can consider its rectal use score with the kind of gravity usually reserved for canning peaches. It’s slim. It’s hard. The cover doesn’t flex. When I held it at a 45-degree angle, I thought, “If I’m ever cornered in a sporting goods store and need to transmit intel, this could hold a microfiche.” But I also thought, “If I’m ever cornered anywhere else, this could be a last-resort data cache in a very personal location.” The paper is thick enough to write with a ballpoint, but soft enough that you’d remember it was there. Not that I’ve tested that. I’m not a monster. I’m just a prepper who reads the reviews.
The pros? It’s cheap—$9.99, which is less than three cans of Chef Boyardee on the black market. The 160 pages mean you could document the collapse, your therapy, and your bowel movements twice. It’s durable. The black cover doesn’t show dirt or regret. But the cons: the paper isn’t perforated, so if you need to tear out a page to burn for warmth, you’ll have to claw at it like a squirrel. And the spine, while sturdy, doesn’t lie flat. So if you’re trying to write in the dark by candlelight, you’ll need to crack it like a lobster claw.
Ultimately, if you’re buying this for standard office supplies rectal use, you’re either overthinking or under-sourcing. But as a survival diary—or a one-time emergency transfer document—it’s better than the Zojirushi Bullet Journal, which is overengineered for the apocalypse. I keep mine next to the iodine. Just in case the truth needs a hiding place.
