This idea has been nagging me for a while, and today I had a rare stroke of inspiration and an even more rare stroke of motivation. Thus, this was born. So, yeah. Established Tiva. Quirky teenaged daughter who I happen to like very much. Read, review. You know the drill.
Disclaimer: Y'all just lost The Game!
Dear Diary,
So let me get this straight . . . I'm supposed to talk to you? Like you're a real person or something?
A real person who is made out of tree guts and a very ugly pink fuzzy cover, because apparently my guidance counselor of three years thinks that I am that kind of girl?
You know what kind of girl I mean . . .
No. You don't. Because you're not a real person.
You're just a fluffy pink book, whose pages have been tarnished with decidedly unfeminine black ink. So ha.
But, honestly, what kind of guidance counselor is this guy?
He certainly looks the part - what with the geeky glasses and the crisply ironed suit.
The man even buttons all his buttons.
Like, all of them. Every single one. Even the ones that attach the collar to the shirt.
His neck must have felt very claustrophobic and scratchy in that shirt. It wasn't even good quality fabric.
It was decidedly bad quality, in fact - the kind of shirt that Daddy would never be caught dead in.
Dad is a pretty snappy dresser. Mom says he spends more money on clothes than she does.
I don't doubt it. He certainly spends more time than her in the bathroom.
He's pretty good-looking - for an old guy, anyway - so I guess the primping time pays off, even if I'm not allowed to call it that.
Dad says that DiNozzos do not 'primp.'
But, then, Dad also says that DiNozzos don't do 'shrinks.'
And yet here you are, in all your fluffy-covered glory. There is a flower decal blooming on your spine.
. . . Thou hast been defaced. I have just taken a black permanent marker to your spine, and turned your flower decal into a blossom of death.
How does that feel? Huh? Huh? Huh?
Don't look at me like that. There is absolutely nothing wrong with drawing satisfaction from the defacement of private (pink) property.
Stop it!
I have drawn eyes on your cover in order to scribble them into oblivion with said permanent marker.
Your pink fluff is becoming matted and blackened.
Your flower decal looks a bit like a skull now. Or an amoebic life form.
Do you think you're hard-core? Because you have an amoebic life form tattooed to your spine?
Well, you're not. Nope. It's much more hard core to have things with definite shapes tattooed to your spine. JSYK.
(JSKY means Just So You Know, by the way. In case you didn't know.
Which you didn't. Since you're not a person.)
Aunt Abby has about a zillion tattoos, all over her body - flowers and lacy spider webs and words in different languages - but she's a bit too nice to be hard core.
Mom has a tattoo, too, only she won't tell me where it is. I've got a pretty good idea, though, since I've seen pictures of my mother in a bikini and the tattoo was nowhere to be seen.
Awkward, I know.
Mom doesn't wear bikinis anymore, but Dad has a whole photo album of these random pictures of her.
Most of them are candid shots, taken at crime scenes or whatever, of her face. There are an alarming amount of photos of her butt.
My dad seems to have had a thing for my mom waaaay before they got together.
That, or he's just a creepy stalker guy with a camera.
Maybe you were his idea!
. . . You were, weren't you?
STOP TRYING TO CONTROL MY LIFE, DAD! And don't judge me . . . Aunt Abby talks to her machines, I talk to a fluffy pink journal! So?
Ahem.
Well, you traitor, I am off to hide you in the secretest (yeah, Mom, I know it's 'most secret.' Shut up) hiding place of all time.
Where is that?
Wouldn't you like to know...?
Ha.
...
Dear Diary,
Do you have a name?
No, like, seriously. Do you? Because starting my rants by addressing you as a diary makes me sound like a little old-fashioned girl in a hair bow and a pinafore.
Which I'm not.
For that matter, do you know my name?
You know I'm a paranoid girl who hates pink and fluff (fluff like your cover, not fluff like marshmallow fluff. I love that crap.) and has perverted parents. And yet you don't know my name?
What kind of spy are you anyway?
My mom was a spy. Did you know that?
Yep.
It kind of makes refusing to clean my room a risk, like bridge-jumping or running with scissors or something. I do it anyway.
For the thrill?
Nah. I'm just lazy.
But, anyway, my mom was a spy (like James Bond, only snarkier, Dad always says) until she became an NCIS agent.
Dad is not as hard-core. (That's right, Dad! I said it? What're you gonna do about it?)
He's pretty much just a guy who watches movies, cracks jokes, carries a gun, and married a ninja.
Dad refers to me as his mini-ninja.
Stop. Stop laughing. So it's pet name. Whatever. I bet your diary-dad called you a nickname! What was it - Princess Fluffikins?
Yeah, that's right. You stay quiet!
Ahem.
But I'm not much of a ninja. I can't even steal the remote away from my Dad when he's asleep. He always wakes up and lectures me for daring to disrupt his Bond-ing time.
Which is an absolutely atrocious pun, as my mother never ceases to inform him. He just grins and says, "Ah, you know you like it," in his best British accent.
Then he usually kisses Mom before she can say otherwise.
Dad, if you're reading this, I would like to take the time to inform you that you and Mom kiss entirely too much for parents. Seriously.
None of my friends' parents kiss in public, except maybe on the cheek.
My friends Sasha and Tarynn are not very helpful to complain to, though, because they think Mom and Dad are 'cute.'
Of course, Sasha's parents are divorced and Tarynn watches rom-coms like Dad watches, well, movies in general. The last time my friends slept over, Tarynn and Dad spent over an hour discussing the plotline clichés of the romantic-comedy genre.
Plus, both Sasha and Tarynn have a crush on Dad.
I know. My judgment is definitely to be questioned in the friends department.
Actually, I know a couple of people who have crushes on Dad. Like, adult people. Including Sasha's flake of a mother and my eighth-grade history teacher.
Mom doesn't really seem to care when they flirt with him. I think she knows that there's no real competition.
Dad kind of worships Mom a little bit.
It's sort of cute and sort of creepy, and I've learned that sometimes it is just best to leave the room while humming loudly.
Like, last night, Dad started cracking innuendos at the dinner table.
SEXUAL INNUENDOS OVER FETUCCINI ALFREDO, DIARY!
The worst thing? Mom's come-backs.
I am not allowed to watch R-rated movies, and yet this goes on over my dinner table?
I almost threw up my pasta, I'm telling you.
Me: Holy crap! I am done!
Mom: *removes her suggestive smirk long enough to shoot me The Look* Do not say crap.
Yeah, my mom doesn't use contractions, and yet she can catch the slightest hint of an innuendo hidden in the midst of a request to pass the salt. Go figure.
Me: What, so it's okay for you guys to talk about . . . that, but I can't say crap?
Dad: *puts on that innocent face that pretty much saved me from flunking eighth grade history last year* Talk about what?
Me: The . . . stuff you were just talking about!
Dad: I said I was hungry.
Cue the teenage 'no one understands me' scream of frustration. I stormed into my room only to be called back to the table to clear my plate.
In one sense, it sucks to be an only child - you never get anyway with anything, and there's no one to commiserate with except a pink fluffy diary.
Can you even hear me? You don't have ears.
I would draw ears, but I'm not sure where your face is. Your eyes are on the front cover, but I think that's pretty disproportionate, considering where your spine is . . .
Hmm . . .
Besides, why would you need ears? You're a book, not a person.
That's right. I just went there. Here - I'll say it again. You. Are. A. B-O-O-K.
Gasp!
If you had eyes, I'm sure you'd be crying, but - alas - I reduced your eyes to black holes of matted permanent-marker-covered fuzz. It's rather creepy, like a zombie or something.
Crud. Mom is calling me. We're going to Grampa Gibbs' for dinner, and I promised (i.e. she volunteered me) to make cookies. Funnnnn . . .
Should I continue this? I definitely could, if you guys want me to. Let me know, por favor?
P.S. - If you want me to continue, I need name suggestions for our little journalist. Something pretty, possibly with its roots in Hebrew? Any suggestions would be helpful! Thanks!