See, I told you that it was depressing. Now old Snapeykins starts writing in first person again. I hope I did a good job of interpreting his restless emotions, I'm a little uncertain because I am a teenage female while he is a grown man. Oh well, I always think that everything I wrote is much crappier than it actually is. I'm really self-deprecating.
That's really all I can write about that. My arm just seizes up and my quill won't move. It doesn't even seem like it's me back there in that bed with Glenn. That's why I wrote in third person. I'm sitting here, on my bed with a quill in one hand writing in my little pussy journal. I've got a glass of wine in the other hand-just like dear old mum, right? Usually I just toss back some beer, whiskey, what have you, but I think the whole journal thing is a special occasion. It's not like I'm ever going to find anyone to share these things inside my head with. That's why I went and bought this. No magic, just something to right things down in. Wasn't Glenn a lovely man? And I never got the chance to yell at him or mum, either. They died a few months after I graduated from Hogwarts. One day mum was really drunk, playing around with a wand, accidentally killed Glenn. She killed herself when she realized what she had done. Way to go, mum. Real blaze of glory, that. The house-elf's the only credible source of information in this sordid little tale. For the life of me I don't know how we got a hold of a house-elf. We were dirt poor until old Glenn came around. Glenn the Mudblood. Of course, Muggle-borns don't really bug me now like they used to. I think that's why I hated them for so long, because of what he did to me. Glenn Farnsbury. That was the bastard's name. Thank god I never took it. He may have made me a Death Eater, but Genevra made me a bachelor. That was my mother's name, Genevra. Every time I see a woman, I think of her. And she's one of the last things I want to think of. But I do want a girlfriend. I'm incredibly lonely in a way that no one could possibly, possibly understand. But anything sexual just gets me thinking about Glenn and I freak. I should do something about it; I know it's not normal or healthy. A support group or something along the lines. But where would telling my story to fourteen unemployed losers who are too wrapped up in their own little traumas to sympathize really get me? There's no closure. Even though the bastard's dead there's no closure. I sold that house, set the house-elf free. It's a craphole anyways. I don't remember my real dad much. His name was Gustavus Snape. He gave me my huge nose, my disgusting greasy hair, a few bruises and left. I wonder where he is sometimes. Maybe he's still alive. I know that someday I'll see a guy with my nose and hair in some bar. I think I'll beat him down. He's old by now; I could take him on if he had to resort to beating up a five-year-old and a five-foot-tall drunk girl to feel like a man. If he's still alive. Which he probably isn't.