Howdy.

I put Liley on the summary. I'm not lying, there will be Liley. Just be patient.

I know there isn't much of a plot starter in this chapter yet, but in a few you'll see some changes. Just bare with me.

The writing style in this is a little...different, it's supposed to be the way it is.

This is set in the past so that it will work its way into the present.

Don't worry, Disney; I'm thirteen and have no intention of ripping you off.

6/14/07

Entry #1

Really Mom? Really? You think I have a problem? I can understand that—yes. But this is how you solve it? You get me a journal? That's just...lame. Maybe I won't talk to you because I don't want to. Maybe your concerned voice gets on my last nerve. Maybe you should just stop trying.

I'll write in this for fun—for kicks. Maybe when I get older I'll look at it and scoff at my petty problems. Unrequited love? Psh. Smidge depressed at fourteen? Psh. Starting high school in the fall? Psh. All stupid and unimportant. I don't need this, I don't need anyone.

Yes journal, I know you're wondering why I'm so bitter. I know you can do that, because you're so much more than paper bound into a book. You have feelings, of course you do. That's what people say. Journals have this supernatural ability to help. Why? And how? This is ludicrous, I'm wasting my time. I sit here dulling another pencil, more lead pouring onto blank pieces of dead tree. Wasted.

Locked up in my own room. I know I'm lucky for that. I pity anyone who doesn't have their own space. It's a place to get away, an escape. A sanctuary. And while others view being locked up a punishment, I consider it a privilege. I'm grateful for it.

You want to know my life story? Hah. You'll get bored half way through. You'll set this down and find more interesting things to do. Maybe fishing? I've always wanted to do that. Take me with you? No, of course you won't. No, I know, I'll be a bother. It's okay, don't worry. Have your fun, and I'll have mine. While you kill things for pride, I'll write this, feeling snide. But don't feel bad—don't pity me. I don't want that. You know my story? Well no, you don't. I haven't it written yet. You want me to? I can tell. Good luck. Let's begin:

Now, when should I start? Birth? No, too early. Then I'd have to dig up baby videos, and be interrogated by my mother. No, thanks. Preschool? Let's see...the only thing you need to know about that is I met a boy named Oliver. We're friends—and I am content with that. I don't want any more from him. Maybe he wants more from me, maybe.

The kingdom of the innocent, preschool. All ignorant, and in deep bliss. Then when you get older, you realize just how annoying everyone and everything is. You turn out like me, hated and unsure. And somewhere in the deep pit of you stomach, you know that's the way it's supposed to be. A friend, or two. The grains of sand at the bottom of the ocean. Metaphor anyone? No, not really. Bit after bit, swallowed into the beast, wondering. Will you ever get out? Will you ever escape from the status quo? Will you leave the others behind and live your life? No, of course you won't. No one does.

You strive for the stars. Your dreams are always there, waiting to be brought to life. But they never are. They are stomped on and destroyed. Your own foolishness to show for it. But don't cry little ones, you have your youth. Make it last—because when it's gone. It's gone.

I rant a lot, can you tell? I've managed to tell you a lot, without telling you a thing. Do you think I am sly? You shouldn't, I don't know what I'm doing. But maybe I should tell you a little about myself, little journal.

I'm not like you—any of you. I grew up like a boy. Well, I'm not a boy. I'm a girl, a female. People look at me in wonder. What is she wearing? They think. Why does she act like this? They think. They pick on me, they all do. I don't let it get to me most of the time--most. Sometimes, though. Sometimes it does. I'll snap at them, and they laugh. Whatever. Let them have their fun, I'm happy to entertain. But no, they are not the reason I am a 'smidge depressed'. No, I am not clinical, suicidal, or any of the such. Did you see that 'unrequited love' one up there? Yeah, maybe that's the reason. Maybe.

I'm not going with time. In fact, I've skipped everything and told you the current situation. Maybe I shouldn't do that. Maybe I should explain. I'll make this short and snappy:

Born.

Preschool, met Oliver.

Started feeling different from the 'princess pack'

One word: sports.

Still friends with Oliver, yes.

Middle school starts: HELL!

Started getting picked on. Started caring, then soon stopped.

One word: Miley...

Another word: Love.

More words: I'm a lesbian.

There, journal. Happy? I just revealed that to you, go spread the word. Go on. Still waiting. Can't? Too bad.

Did I forget to say that love was unrequited? Yes, I did.

Well it is.

The curly-haired brunette beauty. She captured my attention from the start. Her southern twang and somewhat shy personality complimented mine. We connected. And she is the reason for my 'smidge depression'. Can I abbreviate that? I hate writing it out. Smidge depression is now SD. Got it? Good.

I hate that she is the reason. Can you hate someone you love? Yes, you can. It's so conflicting. By the way, are my sentence fragments bothering you? Do you feel the need to correct me? Don't—because I won't let you. This is mine, you can't have it. Go fish.

Sorry, I stray off topic. Back to....my love. It pains me to be with her. But it is two types of pain. One is the pain of my sinking heart when she talks about boys. The other, the sting when one of her limbs touches mine. That is sweet pain. I enjoy that pain. I know there's a word for that...is it pain enthusiast? No...

I act generic. I don't see how she enjoys my company. I'm acting fake. She doesn't know. I need to pretend, because if I don't—well then I'm doomed aren't I?

I'll leave you on a cliffy, journal of mine. I know, I know, you hate me. Don't sweat it, I hate you too.

I like this. Short, yes. I'm glad that you read through all of that, even though the jumpy style might make you want to scream and correct me. It's supposed to be jumpy.

Your reviews motivate me (hint hint)

:)