Chapter 1: Dear Journal
(DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Rohan Weir Project." All characters and locales contained therein are the creations of IN.DO.GU.TSU and should be regarded as such. "Diet Club" is a derivative work of Vil "PitcairnMan" Genner, and is protected under the Fair Use Act of 1974. Please direct all comments and queries concerning "Diet Club" to the author's e-mail address at pitcairnman@hotmail.com)
Dear Journal,
It's been a few years since I wrote an entry here. You see, until a few months ago, I kept an online journal. The thing that made me break you out again was, well, my lack of a computer. The 'rents kept threatening to disconnect it for good and mail it to my older brother in Novartis if I didn't make any improvement in school, and I didn't even believe they were serious at the time. Well, unfortunately for me, they followed each and every one of their words, and now I'm stuck writing my thoughts by hand, using a black erasable pen, like a sucker. Feels like it's 8010 all over again, before the age of widespread personal computer ownership...
On a positive note, my membership in the Lancers' Federal Order has brought me nothing but opportunities to save the city. First, my squad was called upon to save the swankiest department store in the mall from a pack of two-bit street toughs. For the first time in my life, I was hailed as a hero. But that still wasn't enough to make my parents happy, who seem to be obsessed with grades or something. It doesn't even matter if I save the world from an army of alien vampires bent on conquering humanity and feasting on the blood of their newly dominated slaves. If I'm not making straight A's, I'm nothing to them.
It's not that I'm stupid, or that I can't concentrate in school, or that I have an undiscovered and unnamed learning disability. OK, maybe it's all of the above, but also, it's that everyone who works at Andrew Aversa Senior High School is out to get me. I know, it might sound paranoid, but I have reason to believe this is true. A schoolwide conspiracy. Flyers posted on the walls, advertising a student group whose sole purpose is to discriminate against me. An organization that the administrators have actually given their blessing to...
Final exams are long over, and the end of the school year has passed. I was held back because I failed every class except Anime, while I at least got to see my friends move on to higher institutions in the area so we could keep in touch. (Meanwhile, my old enemies, those stuck-up preppies, all moved to Novartis and got jobs with the government there.) And I still maintain friendly relations with that lovely pink-haired girl I met when I was attending a conference in Sydenham Palace for a few days. Because I have no e-mail access, we exchange letters every now and then. Yes. Letters. People actually still write letters by hand. In this day and age, very few people. But enough to still keep the post offices running.
No matter how sucky my life is, I'll never forget that special time I shared with that girl, and how much we meant to each other. Every little detail of that night sticks in my head vividly. It could be that we kissed, and it seemed to last for ages. It could be that we shared all of our innermost secrets, or it could be that we held hands and watched the constellations in the night sky above Anglator. Or it could be that, for the first time in my life, there was a seemingly bottomless vat of Triple Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ice Cream at the dinner party, I had unlimited access to it, and my diet-monitoring parents were nowhere to be found.
That's another thing I think I should mention. Since my last entry in this journal, my gargantuan physique hasn't changed at all. My oft-mentioned parents try as hard as they can to enforce cruel new-age diets. (God, I hated that one diet where I could eat anything I wanted for one minute every two weeks.) It seems as if I'm the embodiment of everything they could possibly hate in a son. Morbidly overweight, with no marketable skills.
Since it doesn't look like I'll get a new computer anytime soon, I'll definitely be back to write another entry in this journal. Until then...
Gene Rothman
(DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Rohan Weir Project." All characters and locales contained therein are the creations of IN.DO.GU.TSU and should be regarded as such. "Diet Club" is a derivative work of Vil "PitcairnMan" Genner, and is protected under the Fair Use Act of 1974. Please direct all comments and queries concerning "Diet Club" to the author's e-mail address at pitcairnman@hotmail.com)
Dear Journal,
It's been a few years since I wrote an entry here. You see, until a few months ago, I kept an online journal. The thing that made me break you out again was, well, my lack of a computer. The 'rents kept threatening to disconnect it for good and mail it to my older brother in Novartis if I didn't make any improvement in school, and I didn't even believe they were serious at the time. Well, unfortunately for me, they followed each and every one of their words, and now I'm stuck writing my thoughts by hand, using a black erasable pen, like a sucker. Feels like it's 8010 all over again, before the age of widespread personal computer ownership...
On a positive note, my membership in the Lancers' Federal Order has brought me nothing but opportunities to save the city. First, my squad was called upon to save the swankiest department store in the mall from a pack of two-bit street toughs. For the first time in my life, I was hailed as a hero. But that still wasn't enough to make my parents happy, who seem to be obsessed with grades or something. It doesn't even matter if I save the world from an army of alien vampires bent on conquering humanity and feasting on the blood of their newly dominated slaves. If I'm not making straight A's, I'm nothing to them.
It's not that I'm stupid, or that I can't concentrate in school, or that I have an undiscovered and unnamed learning disability. OK, maybe it's all of the above, but also, it's that everyone who works at Andrew Aversa Senior High School is out to get me. I know, it might sound paranoid, but I have reason to believe this is true. A schoolwide conspiracy. Flyers posted on the walls, advertising a student group whose sole purpose is to discriminate against me. An organization that the administrators have actually given their blessing to...
Final exams are long over, and the end of the school year has passed. I was held back because I failed every class except Anime, while I at least got to see my friends move on to higher institutions in the area so we could keep in touch. (Meanwhile, my old enemies, those stuck-up preppies, all moved to Novartis and got jobs with the government there.) And I still maintain friendly relations with that lovely pink-haired girl I met when I was attending a conference in Sydenham Palace for a few days. Because I have no e-mail access, we exchange letters every now and then. Yes. Letters. People actually still write letters by hand. In this day and age, very few people. But enough to still keep the post offices running.
No matter how sucky my life is, I'll never forget that special time I shared with that girl, and how much we meant to each other. Every little detail of that night sticks in my head vividly. It could be that we kissed, and it seemed to last for ages. It could be that we shared all of our innermost secrets, or it could be that we held hands and watched the constellations in the night sky above Anglator. Or it could be that, for the first time in my life, there was a seemingly bottomless vat of Triple Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ice Cream at the dinner party, I had unlimited access to it, and my diet-monitoring parents were nowhere to be found.
That's another thing I think I should mention. Since my last entry in this journal, my gargantuan physique hasn't changed at all. My oft-mentioned parents try as hard as they can to enforce cruel new-age diets. (God, I hated that one diet where I could eat anything I wanted for one minute every two weeks.) It seems as if I'm the embodiment of everything they could possibly hate in a son. Morbidly overweight, with no marketable skills.
Since it doesn't look like I'll get a new computer anytime soon, I'll definitely be back to write another entry in this journal. Until then...
Gene Rothman
