Whoo hoo! Double chapter! YEAH! I'm psyched! Maybe it's because I actually like my school. The classes, the play, the guys…especially one…but nobody cares. I had a blog for, like, three days, but then my parents found out and made me shut it down. I hate being 14…blaaaaaarrrgh.
Why did I do that? I wasn't too drunk. I just wanted to touch her body, I guess. Good thing I wrote it down before I forgot it. Wait, I wouldn't forget it unless I blacked out. God, that was pathetic. "I don't want you to hate me…" What the hell was I thinking? I have Fourth Year potions in about ten minutes. Moronic Fourth Years. I wonder what Minerva thinks of me now. She probably thinks I'm schizophrenic, which I haven't seen any evidence of yet but you never know. I'm just thinking of the time Potter saw my Pensieve. Thank god I got to him before he saw anything worse than my being dangled upside-down by Potter and Black. I should have known that that sneaky bastard would've looked just to spite me. You'd think that now that he realized what a horrible man his father was he'd stop hating me…but no, I suppose it's too late for that. Why do I care if the Potter boy hates me? I suppose it's genetic, a basic hatred of Slytherins is probably imbrued into his psyche. Wait. Minerva's coming down the hallway. Damn Fourth Years can wait.
Minerva and I were at Hogwarts together back then. She was four years older than me, and a Gryffindor so naturally we didn't socialize. She wanted to apologize for never stopping Potter and Black. I told her it wouldn't have made a difference, they never would have stopped. I remember Harry's mother. Lily Evans or something. She was occasionally nice to me, and I was just so rude back all the time. Maybe I could have had a friend if I hadn't gone and ruined it. I always ruin things with people, and I'm going to ruin things with Minerva. What things? Just because she can stand you doesn't mean she likes you as a person. Why did she rub my back when I grabbed her like that? She should have just pulled away; it would have been easier for everyone. One of the students (presumably) put bubotuber pus in my desk drawer and it was a disaster. I couldn't write for a while, and I really felt like I wanted to. I guess journals do become addictive. Why did I even buy one? I think the store clerk was laughing at me for buying it. I think I'm going to cork open a bottle of wine and have some nice drinking tonight.