November 23, 2004
I?m not going to write this story elegantly, building the plot like some over-decorated cake with too many layers, sprinkling witty comments and sarcasm everywhere as if I were writing this for entertainment. Obviously I'm not. Literature is not my best skill, strong point, or even a hobby I do on the side. It is just a means of communication, an avenue for me to get out what's really bothering me. No discussing little things here, though. You can get that useless notion out of your head. If you want a book that's going to share with you my latest crush, who I've slept with, or what so-and-so said last whatever day, this isn't the place to be now. My thoughts are designed to appeal to me and me alone, so I honestly don't care who I piss off with this journal. If someone happens to get caught in the crossfire of my criticisms and accusations, that's their own fault. Don't expect me to take responsibility for kids across America. Truth is, I have a hard enough time taking care of myself-
Enough said on that topic. Let?s move to the next case, shall we?
I guess I'll start off with the basics, like why I'm up at three in the morning, jotting down ideas with crayons, looking worse than a boy who hasn't met his beddie-bye time for days. Haggard as hell, wearing a face paler than a Kabuki theater mask. Well, that's not totally true. There is some color on my skin, but not what you're probably thinking. No rose colored cheeks or lips here. Just big, dark circles under my eyes, lack of sleep permanently staining me, overshadowing my features like black clouds blocking any visible sunlight. And the rest of me? Worse than that. Matter of fact, it's worse than ever
Gah, it hurts to talk about it-well, to write it, if you want to get technical on me. Can't stand what's going on. I hate it more than any rival I've had, any rich bitch who has rubbed my face in cold cash insults, more than any teacher who has ever singled me out in class and disciplined me in front of God and everybody. I mean, it sucks. Life sucks.
I know, I know, everyone must think that I'm the worst person of all, showing off new things I buy, rasping out bitter remarks, always looking down my nose at someone while slicing through any and all happy expressions with a classically cruel smirk. No one likes me around here. No one. When I sit at a place for lunch, the table clears faster than a flock of birds scared by a prowling cat. If I enter a local coffee joint in town, the students will leave, granting me the privilege of having shaken wait staff at my disposal.
Similar episodes go on in department stores. I strut in, square the shoulders, take a single look at customers around me, and watch them struggle to squeeze through the exits as a trembling hostess bows and performs the usual introduction. It takes so much politeness, so much self-control to not roll my eyes at the owners of these shops. They may be upbeat, even belting out a hearty "Welcome!" to me as they take my coat, but I know better. Fake, everything about them is fake, right down to their plastic smiles and cheery dispositions. Royally crappy theatrics, if you ask me. My brother's still in junior high and even he could top the screwy acting displayed by those assholes. Maybe when he graduates from high school, he can replace their jobs. Oh, well, that's a big enough wish for me to cross my fingers for. Heres hoping...
Yeah, that's the story, though. Huh, maybe not all of it, but at least it's a start. Can't give away the ending to a book that's just been started, now can I? This is just the beginning, the first page of a novel filled with secrets and lies, betrayal and scandal, backstabbing that only I know about, that I will never disclose to anyone-or thing-again. Should this journal be lost to a fire, water damage, or other evidential natural disasters, I will not rewrite it, nor will I hunt for any remains to repair the volume here. What's broken will stay broken, like glass frames thrown on the floor, just like photographs of minethat were shattered and torn years ago. So, Dear Reader, does this sound like a soap opera yet? Are you waiting for hard liquor to come up, drugs to surface, money monsters to be dissected and evaluated more than Big Foot ever was? Not here, people. That sideshow plays on hard metro streets all day long. What I'm about to disclose is more despicable than whatever attempt at horror V.C. Andrews made. Flowers in the Attic is a mere children's book compared to how Father made his fortune, what he did with it, and the shy little child he destroyed in creating the perfect business shark...