Disclaimer: Tom Riddle is the delightful property of Ms Rowling. I do not own him. Excuse me while I go cry over this.
Dear Diary
By: xSweet Allure
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September 17, 1942
Mood: Bitchy.
Dear Diary,
Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. There isn't much to say about me except that I utterly loathe and despise the world as well as all the filthy, disgusting people in it. Yes, my life is like a black abyss. It's suffocating sometimes. My friggen mother just HAD to die while giving birth to me! All because my pathetic excuse for a MUGGLE father ditched her sorry arse when finding out that she was a witch.
F. U., BITCHES.
Woe is me; I end up an orphan because mother lost her desire to live. THANKS MUMMY. And people wonder why I'm bitter and emo.
Wait. What the hell is emo?
Hating you always,
Tom.
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September 23, 1942
Mood: Cocky.
Dear Diary,
Today I looked in the mirror and I saw the face of God.
Then I realized I was staring at myself.
Sweet Salazar, I'm sexy.
The world should burn,
Tom.
PS. Nagini just bit me. I hope she gets kidnapped and made into boots.
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September 24, 1942
Mood: Apathetic.
Dear Diary,
I think Nagini read you. She's given me a couple of venomous glares to match her never-ending bite-age into my smooth, flawlessly irresistible flesh.
Bite-age isn't a word, by the way. But I figure, I'm Tom Riddle. I can do whatever I friggan please.
Anyway, I hope Nagini doesn't run away.
I'm sighing now, diary. Sighing ever so deeply . . .
Oh, hold on. Nagini can't "run away"!
She hasn't any feet.
Silly me!
I still hope that she doesn't go slithering away though. If she does, I'll be forced into a homicidal rage. It helps to ease the overwhelming pain of abandonment which I harbor inside myself
Although, flying into a homicidal rage is not much different from how I usually act.
Keep it on the down low, diary. My peers like to think I'm rather cunningly charming and suave.
They are SO right.
I'm pretty amazing,
Tom.
September 24, 1942 Night time
Mood: Lonely.
Dear Diary,
Nagini's acting bitchy. She won't cuddle with me.
-tear -
I hate her :'[
Not getting any,
Tom.
PS. I know what you're thinking, diary...
And I get PLENTY of that
Lolz! The number of tramps in this school is glorious.
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September 25, 1942
Mood: Suicidal.
Dear Diary,
Some stupid Gryffindor ate the last muffin.
Now I have no breakfast.
WHAT DID I EVER DO TO HER?!?!
You know, besides trying to cut off her hair.
While she's sleeping.
At midnight.
In her dorm.
…And then use her clippings to make a noose so that I could possibly strangle her with it.
You know, just in case I get bored.
Killing is a swell hobby of mine. It's just like stamp collecting, only, not.
…AND PLEASE, LIKE YOU WOULDN'T WANT ME IN YOUR DORM ROOM!
Note to self, diary-
I'm baking my OWN muffins tonight.
Sad and muffin-less,
Tom.
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September 25, 1942 [Night Time
Mood: Pissed.
Dear Diary,
I set the Common Room on fire.
It would've been marvelous if I was doing it while NOT trying to bake muffins.
Apparently just because I can do magic…
That doesn't mean that I can bake.
Curses.
My life long dream of moving to Paris to become a world-renowned chef has been shattered.
Shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.
But I guess being evil is cool.
I guess.
Whatever,
Tom.
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September 26, 1942
Mood: Confused.
Dear Diary,
Why am I calling you a diary?
Do I have some female part that I don't know about?!
I am a MAN.
Men do not write in diaries.
They write in JOURNALS!
But you're pretty, diary. Because you have my name on you.
Feel honored.
I just wish you were a journal.
You're an insult to my manliness.
Manly as ever,
Tommy Wommykins...errr, Tom..
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September 28, 1942
Mood: Blah.
Dear Diary,.
That Transfigurations teacher. Dumbledore.
He makes me hot.
WITH RAGE!!!!
I wish him an eternity of constipation and gas.
Plotting something,
Tom.