Author's note: Hey guys! Thanks for all of your absolutely lovely reviews~ I decided to post this now just because of you (: Oh, also, to "can't-reach-beer" - Yes! Mello's cofession is totally going to be cannon in my head (: Maybe I'll have to stick it in this fic somewhere... if you don't mind, of course (:

Please continue to review~! Signed pictures of Mello in his infamous pink jeans for anyone who does XP

~Rainbow Fruit Loop x

~The Weird and Wonderful World of a Guy Named Matt~
Chapter Three.

March 2nd 2006.

The start of March was as crap as the start of any other month. Roger decided to read our diaries, and was deeply unimpressed with the amount of swearing in mine.

Really. Which sixteen year old boy doesn't fucking swear?

…LOL.

But he didn't comment on my whine about him not buying me a car for my birthday. I was rather hoping that he'd say something along the lines of, "Ooh, good Lord, I didn't realise that I'd forgotten to buy you a car for your birthday, Matt! Let me pop out and buy you one right now! Spiffing! Smashing! Tea and crumpets! Good day, chap!" But he didn't, because he's evil like that.

And, I know that that's not how Roger speaks, but life's more fun when you make boring, paedophilic men more naff than usual.

But, I do have to say, if Roger was unimpressed with my journal, then he was in for a shock when he read Mello's. I mean, Mello's, after all, consists of three words repeated over and over and over (and over) again: "I hate Near."

I am sensing no creativity in Mello's diary.

March 6th 2006.

I walked into Mello and I's shared room today to find an adorable baby bunny rabbit with a large purple ribbon around its neck. It was sitting on the carpet looking stunned.

My first thought was, "I hope it doesn't crap on the carpet."

My second thought, which probably should have been my first, was, "What the fuck is a rabbit doing here?"

But then Mello pranced out of the small en-suite bathroom (yeah, we go all out here at Wammy's) with a grin on his face and another bunny in his arms.

He said - well, he yelled - "Happy birthday, Matty!" He then proceeded to thrust both rabbits into my arms, where I promptly dropped one onto the carpet on its head due to my surprise.

I hope it doesn't damage it somehow.

Brain-dead bunny rabbits are overrated.

But, I guess I did get a present. Two of them, in fact. Even if they were just the teeniest, tiniest bit late.

But I didn't want to ask Mello where he got the rabbits from. Probably somewhere not-legal.

March 7th 2006.

Surprisingly, the rabbits aren't dead yet. Mello hasn't gotten annoyed and thrown them out of the window yet, so all is good in the world. The only slight problem is that Mello kind of, sort of, possibly forgot to mention our smuggled rabbits to Roger.

Oh well. He doesn't need to know everything. I think he's allergic, anyways.

According to Mello, one rabbit is his, and the other is mine. I, of course, chose the cutest one, because I'm epic like that. My bunny is light brown with a darker brown patch over its left eye. It's also the one I dropped on its head, so I think that it's a bit dopey.

But oh well. I'm not going to judge it for any mental-retardation it may or may not have acquired due to something which may or may not have been my fault.

Mello's rabbit is dark black with a streak of white up its nose, and has anger issues. No jokes. It's already torn up three different half-finished assessments of mine, (I'm not bothered, though, because I wasn't going to hand them in anyways) and had a good chew on Mello's black ugg boots.

So the bunny's personality matches Mello's personality well. They can both go and be angry in a corner somewhere.

Sadly, though, it took three agonizing, intense hours for Mello and I to finally decide on names for them.

Mine's called Pickles and Mello's is called Bruce.

Hardcore, I know.

March 14th 2006.

Mello had a complete angst-feast today because his hair wouldn't go straight. It was actually hilarious, though, because bits of it were sticking up at funny angles.

He looked like he had gone through a hedge backwards, had a 'disagreement' with the cow on the other side of the hedge about the quality of chocolate milk (I've tried telling Mello that chocolate milk doesn't actually come from cows, but he ignores me), and then been hit by three different bolts of lighting.

Yeah. Just a bit of a bad hair day.

Anyways, it really is hard living with someone as high-maintenance as Mello. He gets all funny if – wait, there's a list –

a) His hair's not in its 'perfect, straight, blonde style'. He sometimes has to resort to using straighteners and blow dryers, but it didn't work today. Heh…

b) He gets a spot on his – and I quote – "fabulously perfect skin". I do have to say, though, he's got the type of skin that most girls would kill for. It does always seem to be flawless – even when he's in anguish about his "many, many spots". Drama queen.

c) His fingernails get dirty. Maybe he should stop scrabbling around in the dirt outside our window to find the four-months-supply of chocolate he buried in case of "desperate times", then, hm?

d) His black nail polish chips. Men shouldn't wear nail polish in my opinion. Then again… Mello will be Mello.

or, e) If his gender is mistaken. I do have to say, though, this one is perfectly reasonable. And it does seem to happen a lot… Well. Those pink jeans aren't going to be helping him, are they?

But anyways. Back to "The Crisis". I tried telling him that he was as gorgeous as always, but he told me to "shut the fuck up and do something helpful."

So I did.

I Googled "How to get over PMS" for him, and then subtly left it on the computer screen, hoping that he'd notice it, read it, and take the advice in an attempt to stop being so pissy all the time.

Sadly, though, even though Mello did notice the helpful website, he took it the wrong way.

So I've just had a one and a half hour session with "Psychiatrist Mello" answering stupid questions like 'How does having PMS make you feel?', 'Can you remember the first time you experienced the symptoms of PMS?' and 'Do you think you can get over this issue?' You know. Crap like that.

The sad thing is, though, I think he was actually serious.

That's the last time that I try to help Mello out.

Ever.

March 19th 2006.

I walked into Mello and I's room today to find Mello curled up on the couch with Bruce, a mug of hot chocolate, a blanket, and my diary. He was having major hysterics – probably scaring poor, poor, angry Bruce in the process.

I mean, WTF? That's totally abusing my privacy! Mello is so rude. Bitch.

I said to him – in a completely shocked voice -, "Mello, are… are you reading my diary?"

I thought I'd give him a chance to deny it. Because, then when he said "no", I could have whipped out my amazing logic and pointed out that he was, in fact, reading my diary.

But he said, "Yes."

Yeah, good, great. He doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's an interfering bastard.

So then I said, "But that's totally abusing my privacy!"

And he said, "Don't leave it lying around in your sock drawer, then. Anyways, your issues are fun to read."

There are so many things wrong with that 'explanation'.

One: Why the hell was he snooping around in my sock drawer? That's insanely creepy! And, anyways. It wasn't "lying around" in my sock drawer. It was minding its own business, busy being smothered by my new bright green socks. Does Mello have an issue with socks or something? Sockist.

Two: They're all his issues, not mine. I don't have issues… much…

Three: Issues shouldn't be fun to read! How many people have 'fun' reading Anne Frank's diary? If you just thought "me!" to yourself, then you are a sick, sick person. She died. Death is not fun. Unless, of course, you happened to die on a rollercoaster or something. That might be fun.

Anyways. Back to the main point of this diary entry (I have a tendency to veer off topic. Had you noticed?): I've had to have hidden my diary in a very secret place.

And, no, it's not under my mattress. I'm not that stupid.

March 25th 2006.

Thank God. Finally found my diary. I am such a brilliant hider-of-diaries, that I lost it for a bit. But then, after I'd trashed the bedroom for a while, I found it.

It was behind the photo on the wall of L, Mello, Near and I, obviously. Brilliant hiding place, right? Mello the Sockist will never find it.

Although, now that I look at the picture more closely, there's something wrong with Near.

He's wearing black glasses, got a mustache, and the words "I'm an arse" are written in a large speech bubble above his head.

…Damn it, what did I tell Mello about ruining group photos of us by butchering Near's image?

Now, wait here. I'm going to go and look at all of the other pictures of Near we have. (By the way, I know that sounded stalkery, but it's not. I swear.)

…

Oh, for fuck's sake. Every single photo that we have of Near has been inconspicuously doodled on. He's got one of those weird French mustaches in all of them.

Although, I must say, the picture where he's 'wearing' that large purple hat with the peacock feather in it is pretty stunning.

But I should never, ever have given Mello that twelve-pack of brightly coloured permanent markers for his birthday.

I should have known it would end in some sort of disaster.

March 31st 2006.

Ah, March has been quite a good month, really. Apart from the parts where Mello was involved. I'm still annoyed at him for reading my diary/doodling on our photos/breathing, but I don't think he's noticed that I'm giving him the cold shoulder.

On the bright side, though, Pickles and Bruce are still teeny tiny, and completely and utterly adorable.

Now, to anyone (who is actually deluded) who is now thinking, "Aw. Matt's world is all rainbows, fluffy bunny rabbits, sparkles and chocolate,": You're wrong.

…We never get rainbows down here.