Hi, yes, it's me again! I wrote this fic while sitting around killing time before going to meet my friend for a movie. And yes, I'm on a high because I discovered a comic shop that has an Entire section for Yaoi manga...(squeals) I bought Cantarella book 1! Yay! I've been looking for that book for...ever. (runs off to stock up on cash) Enjoy!

I do not own Samurai 7. Or Kyuzo. Pity, pity...

Kyuzo's Diary

Day 1:

Dear Diary.

The one and only reason I'm actually bothering to keep something as soppy, emotional and stupid as a diary is because I had no choice in the matter. For some stupid reason my sister decided that I should go see a psychiatrist because "someone needs to cure his attitude problem with the world". Whatever that means. Firstly, there's no one here who would have an attitude problem because no one has any attitude. Secondly, how is my seeing a shrink going to cure someone else's problem and thirdly, I don't see why I should help this guy out in the first place: I don't even know who he is.

My ever-so-thoughtful sister, of course, ignored all my questions and dragged me down with her to make an appointment. So much for having her brother's interests at heart. I think she said something like "so he'll open up and become a more compassionate person so those around him can stop suffocating in his murderous ambiance and stifling silence and the world can become a better place". Which is all utterly nonsensical. I mean, look at me, I put up with Hyogo's severely overinflated ego, sadistic tendencies and worst of all his horrific fashion sense. Until I finally snapped and killed him, but it's not my fault. No one asked him to dress like a kindergarten student's paper mache doll gone wrong. Heck, he was even the same colour. He had it coming to him.

But I digress. As I was saying, if this guy is really that bad, they should just kill him and be done with it instead of wasting so much time, effort and money trying to reform him. I mean, he can't be that hard to kill or anything.

Day 2:

Dear Diary.

Went to see the shrink today. Bloody old geezer wouldn't stop talking. There's only so much oen can say about their past patients' success stories. I would've killed him but my sister confiscated my swords, yes both of them, before I entered the room. If I'd been killed right then and there in front of her then she'd be sorry. Seriously, what if that old man had tried to murder me? Being that ancient his brain can't be working that well anymore. Age does things to you.

Which I've already gotten evidence of. No one can deny that he's insane now. He kept telling me to "talk more to the people around you so they can help you when you need it" and to "make more friends so you'll be a happier person". I can't believe how daft he is. I don't want anyone's help and neither do i want friends. And I'm happy enough knowing nobody can ever beat my sword skills. And in the first place, why does he keep addressing me when the person we're supposed to be discussing is that mystery guy my sister keeps going on about? Even if we were, there's no reason whatsoever to tell me about some ex-patient and her cat, or why I should drink coffee, whatever that is, and of all things, his broken marriage with some woman 10 years his junior. I don't blame her for running off with some other guy. I would've.

Read my lips, old man, I don't give a damn about cats or weird invented words like coffee, even less your inevitable broken marriage. I suppose he can't read expressions. Expected that anyway, seeing as his mouth's the only part of him actually still functioning. Too well, at that. And give or take a finger or two that he waggles at me every time he says "your problem". Note to self: Bring masking tape the next time I visit that shrink.

Day 3:

Dear Diary.

Discovery for today: Masking tape does not, I repeat, does NOT work when trying to shut up old psychiatrists who love hearing themselves talk about others' nonexistent problems in stead of their own ubiquitous ones. My brilliant self control finally snapped today and I attempted to plaster the old man's unnaturally active mouth with some handy masking tape that miraculously found its way into my pocket. And I would've succeeded too, if the old man hadn't insisted on proving my nothing-works-on-old-people-but-their-mouths theory wrong. He was flailing like he'd probably never done in his entire life...knocking over that cursed vase.

Which shattered and brought the gardener running. Fortunately for me the old man was too stunned to speak (for once) and the gardener was stupid enough to believe that I really had looked up to see the old man trying to eat the glue off the tape and I jumped so violently in my shock that I knocked over the vase. Really, sometimes these people are so stupid they scare me. I wonder if they scare themselves too. And I should be a storyteller with my newfound ability to weave stories out of nothing in a few moments.

And here comes my sister thundering down the hall, presumably to get at me for attacking poor defenseless old men. And to make me pay her for the damage she had to pay for, namely the vase. It was so fugly it can't have cost much anyway. People would probably have to be paid to keep it. That old man should write me a cheque for helping him out. This is why I hate old people...so unreasonable. I have to pay him for doing him a favour? Ah, the irony in life.

Good point being, he now refuses to see me ever again. Good riddance.

Not so good point being, my sister's going on about finding me a counselor to treat my "murderous tendencies". Now I know who that guy she was talking about was. I never knew that old man had so many problems. Maybe I shouldn't have been that mean. But he asked for it, honest. And now I shall go enjoy the remaining bit I have of a life before my sister finds me a new shrink.

Did you like it? It all started when a fried of mine mentioned that Kyuzo had an attitude problem with the world, and I started thinking of how we could treat it. Hope it turned out well!