Hi guys! I know I should be working on my Ulquiorra fic, but I got this spark and then it caught on fire, so this was born. Plus, I've wanted to do a Mello fanfic for a really long time, so...

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.


December 13

Hey. My name's Mello. My best friend is Matt and my best frienemy is Near. He is a twit. (Not Matt. Near.)

I turned ten today. But you're an inanimate object, so I guess you won't be wishing me a happy birthday, now will you?

If you're wondering what my birthday present was, that's where you come in, you dumb diary. I called you dumb because Matt got a new video game for his birthday back in February and all I get is a boring little notebook.

And what am I supposed to write in here? My feelings? I'm not a girl, retard. Even though Matt keeps telling me I look like one. Yeah, right. Like he can talk. He still plays Barbie doll games (ew) and Jigglypuff is still his favorite Pokemon. I can't see why. I mean, sorry, but fat pink balls of stupid aren't really that likable. All it does is put people to sleep with its demented song and write on its victims' faces. And it's completely useless in the game. Sometimes I get the feeling that Matt only likes Jigglypuff because he's in love with it or something.

I just decided that you aren't a diary anymore. You're officially a journal now, because journals are way manlier than diaries. Only girls have diaries. They write down all their gross romantic feelings in their "diaries," and I don't have any gross feelings like that, which makes you a journal. Actually, the most common emotion I ever feel is the small disappointment you get when you finish a really, really good chocolate bar.

Near is sitting in his emo corner doing one of those puzzles of his. I bet he only does the 5000-piece ones to show off.

And why does Near get the single bed? Me and Matt are stuck on a bunk. And of course Mr. Game Freak here gets to sleep on the top cot. He's up there right now playing Pokemon Emerald and laughing maniacally whenever he beats a gym leader. I think he's showing off too.

Back to the Near-has-the-single-bed rant.

I mean, seriously, just because he doesn't have to share a bunk with a redheaded gamer who's got a chronic snoring problem doesn't mean he's specialer than us (even though he's convinced he is). I don't even think specialer is a word, but I'm gonna use it anyway. I have to get the point across somehow, you know.

Near, if you're reading this, I want you to know that you are NOT specialer than me and Matt. We are specialer than you because at least we're colorful. You're just a white blob sitting on the floor stacking dominos. At least me and Matt have the gift of not-boringness.

Anyway, Matt and I are gonna be way hotter than Near when we grow up. He's gonna be so obese because all he does is nothing. I mean, I have a chocolate addiction, but at least I know how to kick a ball. That little braggart can't even get the thing to the goal without picking it up and carrying it. Which is something he actually does every time we make him play soccer with us so he has an excuse to get kicked out of the game.

I'm watching TV right now. The Jonas brothers are on tour from America and they're singing some totally lame song about their great-great-great-granddaughter. They are so gay. I'm not even kidding. And they're annoying too. I really wish they would just go die in their homo-holes.

I should probably be doing my essay right now (the topic is "What it Means to Be L"), but I have, like, zero motivation at the moment. Maybe when I get mad at Near I'll write the essay as an excuse to rant. Or maybe I'll write it when I feel especially passionate about my dreams, which is not going to happen any time soon because I'm really pissed about getting you for a birthday present instead of getting a giant box of candy, you stinky notebook. (I mean, seriously, is a lifetime supply of chocolate really too much to ask for? Jeez.)

The clock says ten o'clock. Maybe we should go to bed soon…

OMG! It's ten-oh-one now!

(I was being sarcastic. Yes, I'm really that bored.)

I'm in my boxers and T-shirt now instead of my daytime clothes, because I'm tired and bored and I'm about to quit writing.

Good night. You poopy little journal-not-diary.

―Mello


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