Journal, 11/2/60
First thing you oughta know about me is that I'm not some sissy. The only reason I'm writing in this stupid thing is cause the shrink here at the orphanage wants me to talk about my 'feelings' and junk. What in the world'm I supposed to write here? I'm tired of writing in this.
Journal, 11/3/10
Apparently, the shrink, or Dr. Robbins I guess, says I need to write more sentences, to 'express myself fully' and 'release emotional barriers.' Why do I even go to her? I mean, I could talk about my feelings all I wanted if I chose to, and no stinking shrink can make me do something I don't wanna do. But, yeah, if I write in this, I'll get a gold star or whatever they give the good kids in the orphanage, so I'll fill out this stupid sheet she gave me, maybe then she'll be satisfied.
1) What is your full name? Paris Lynne Winston
2) What do you look like? Blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin. I look like a stupid Barbie, but with smaller 'assets.'
3) What do you do in your spare time? Sit around and knit?
4) Do you have any goals for this year? Don't die
5) What is your favorite possession? A silver, pointy object
6) What is your favorite memory? The day I won my first rumble.
7) What do you want to be when you grow up? Veterinarian...
8) Who is your best friend? Dyllan
Whew that made me exhausted. Guess I'd better stop.
Journal, 11/4/10
The shrink says I'm obviously not taking this 'serious assignment' seriously. Well, I'm so regretful. At least now she's not checking this stupid thing. I'm still gonna write in this thing though. It's not like I have that many people listening to me at the moment. I guess I'm an outsider, not really fitting in. That previous sentence was painful to write. You can throw me a pity party now!
So what do you normally write in a diary? I'm not gonna sit on a sunstreaked sofa and write about my perfectly perfect day and how I had a tea party at Mary Sue's or anything. Actually, I'm writing this underneath my bed at midnight because I'd be teased for weeks if one of the guys caught me writing. Dr. Robbins would faint in happiness, though. See, I doubt she has successful sessions with the leftovers from the streets here at the Tulsa Orphanage.
School tomorrow. I'm jumping in happiness.
Journal, 11/5/10
School isn't fun. Actually, I could use many more words other than fun, but contrary to the popular belief, I don't swear so I won't say the words. Being an orphan and all, my only social interaction is from spitballs, pitying glances, and jeers. Except for the teachers in which case I'm the smart kid. I hate that, too. I mean, I'm don't seem like the kind of person who studies, which leads to lots of teases from the Socs. Of course, I don't exactly brag about my grades, so that doesn't come up often.
I'm a 'greaser' which means I don't wear skirts and according to the Socs, hook up with every availiable guy. I don't even see the point of this. I mean, honestly, who needs more fighting. Also, if I get one more stinking glare, my switchblade'll come out, I promise.