Dear Diary,
Woe is I. Living in a castle sucks. Literally. I feel seriously let down. It's nothing like those fluffy daydreams I had when I was a kid. (Disney's a bunch of lying, corporate rats)
Grey, stone walls soak up what little light there is (not like the place is riddled with light fixtures), and relentlessly bounce back every sound you make. Add the fog that likes to ambush us at least three times a week, and you've got yourself a winner. I'll be manic depressive in no time. Yeah, Scotland is swell. This, before I've gotten to the part where I have to live in what the smell tells me can only have been the stables in this place. My clothes are giving it a run for its money though. Go me.
Big sis(do I even need to comment?) is way too busy with her fawning flock of Slayerettes to give me any time. Hell, the time she's got left she uses to dodge me, unless she feels like coming around and accusing me. So, okay, valid, but she doesn't know that! ...Wish I could just wind back time, undo what I did.
Would write more, but my giant ogre hands have filled the entire journal alre --