The owner of this book is

Laura Sands .

"What you dislike in another, take care to correct it in yourself."

-Thomas Sprat

Day 1

Dear Journal. My name is Laura Sands. I am not suppose to be here.

I am suppose to be at my home, in fuzzy sweatpants while I read/write Fanfiction, not on a bus to hell. I could be anywhere but here, like on the moon, but nooo! My fate has been decided by a stupid letter that my Grandpa had sent out and now I really hate him.

Well, not really hate hate him, but dislike him greatly. I could never really kill my funny grandpa, or wish him dead. Because thats what Hate really means. (So many say the word 'hate' but really, I suppose they are too lazy to actually say 'I greatly dislike you'. )

Anyways, the message is clear. I greatly dislike being on this bus heading towards my death for the next four years. I am not suppose to be at this.. place. I hate (and yes, I do mean hate. Not a great dislike. An actual hate) the people who I am suppose to be associating with. And my Grandpa knows this! Its one of my favorite topics on how to murder them without being caught (and no, I haven't tried it… yet.) and yet he sent that letter. Apparently, about three hundred years ago, my great-great-great-great grandma was killed by saving one of them, and being sent to their school was a way of apology.

Seriously, a life for four years of school? It wasn't enough. They should have just sent us some well needed cash and call it good.

But nooo! I have to go to hell. And its a dorm too. So I have to spend 24/7 with them. This officially sucks.

The only advice I have from my dear Grandpa? "Write your emotions," He said,"You'll thank me later."

So this is why you exist, my journal, because my Grandpa sent you along in my ratty PokeMon backpack and I am bored. And as paper, I am sure you are bored too. So lets just pretend that we are friends, and not give me any papercuts (because I hope you are not possessed by a demon or anything. They freaking hurt.) and give me advice from your stupid quotes on the top of the page.

Well, I have to give thanks to my Grandpa, because this whole experience is free. Even though I will be (grudgingly) happy about that. However, if I piss somebody off, I could potentionally set a war off.

I am afterall, the only human to attend this school.

The others, however are immortal bastards.

So, here I am. On a bus, with all my important belongings stuffed in a threadbare duffel bag (including my manga, my small collection of cameras, and some snacks), ready about to enter the only place I hate on the planet. Tons of girls all over the world would be so jealous that I would live with them for the next few years, and would kill me if I got too close. Even some guys love them.

However, I am as antisocial as one could ever get.

So, to end this entry, I will say the last few things on my mind.

I hate Hetalia high.

I am the most unhappy girl in the whole world.

Day 2

"If a book is well written, then I find it too short."

-Jane Austen

So, my dear Journal. You probably cannot see me, figuring that you are a freaking paper book, but I will describe myself. I have flat dark brown hair, a bridge of freckles across my nose, and green eyes. I am, figuratively, ugly. Well, I am certainly not pretty, for sure! I am just a normal, sarcastic, sassy teenager with a sense of humor, and I will tell you exactly how I feel while I am here.

Or, I will probably use you as a fire starter when I need to dispose of a body. Either one is fine.

Alright, since you begged for it (more like you gave me a glare, and how can paper give a glare?) I will give some more description. My hair goes down to my waist, I love wearing dark clothing (because I want to be a ninja when I grow up, true story), and sometimes in the right light, my green eyes can appear a bright blue. How that can happen, I have no idea. I don't pay much attention to the genetics part in my science class. I am not pretty, and I have a wild imagination. And maybe when I have plot bunnies, I will write books in you.

Maybe.

Almost definitely.

Alright. You got it. It will happen, just when the plot bunnies attack (they are a fearsome enemy of mine).

Journal, I need to give you a random name, and then I can just stop calling you by your object name (its like having a black person calling an American, a white person) and I suppose it would be a bit weird.

So I have a few options.

Steve, Amanda, and Mallory.. those are some good names. In fact, I love them! But which one to choose? I can't decide. How about all of them. Steve-Amanda-Malory. But too long to write in this journal. So… how about an acronym of those three names? Sam? Thanks Journal, you are now named Sam.

May the force be with you, Sam. For, heaven forbid, you are going to need it while being my writing companion this year. Because you only do have 365 pages, until I get a new companion. Hey, don't look sad (seriously, how can paper look sad?) I am only on the first entry.

So lets talk about my day.

So, I left off… in the bus part. So I was in a total miserable mood and I wrote about going to hell. Well, this is hell, and not in the way I had imagined.

It had started on the….

You know what, I hate this.

I hate writing like this. It takes too long and I can't think of this. Sam, you are going to be my writing journal. Not a diary, but my journal in my writing font that doesn't talk in past tense. I cannot do past tense and so I am dropping this. I am going to write it like a professional Fanfictioner and you (and your bambi eyes (seriously! Its possessed!)) cannot stop me. I am not writing a letter to myself, because that is sooo boring and I will die before I finish my first week if I continue doing this.

So ha! For some reason, I feel like rubbing it into your face (and not the eraser because that would be literal for you Sam).

I will start where I had left off yesterday.

Thank you. Now the real story starts.

Please Review. I am begging you.