Ok, I'll write
in this. Against my will, mind you. This journal, you see, was a
gift. Gifts are meant to be enjoyed. A new broomstick, for example.
You can fly with it, you can show it off, you can beat the living
hell out of small animals (mainly humans) with it, whatever. A gift's
purpose in life is to lighten your spirits, relax you, give you those
few and far between moments where you totally and completely forget
about everyone's favorite son-of-a-bitch, life. When gifts become
chores, then they suck balls. Big balls. Like, gallon-cum balls.
Ah,
greetings are in order. My name is Justin Finch and I hate my
parents. Yes yes, everyone hates their parents, I know. I also know
this: Fuck you. As I was saying, I hate my parents. Not in that, 'Oh,
I hate Mondays!' or, 'Oh, I hate waking up early!' or, 'Oh, I hate
when semen runs down my leg all day whenever Tom forgets a rubber!'
kind-of-way. More like the way Hitler hated the Jews. Only, more
murder, less rape. Or is it the other way around?
Continuing,
I guess. I'm eleven years old and incredibly vulgar. This I realize,
this I enjoy. I attribute it to the famous comedian my father used to
adore, meaning I also grew to love, Spurcus Canticum, who usually
made a joke about his last name with his famous, 'Can't I cum?' bit.
Spurcus was known in the Wizarding community as "The Minister of
Laughs." People wonder why he killed himself.
I did say
that I hate my parents, and I do, but I'll get into that later.
However, I also said something positive regarding my father. Allow me
to explain. My dad, as in the birth variety, is cool. My step-dad and
my mother, aren't. It's simple, really, but I guess I'll give a
better example. My father, for my birthday, sent me a signed quaffle
by the entire Falmouth Falcons roster, the greatest team in the
history of Quidditch, if I neglected to mention that. Suck it,
Montrose.
Ironic that my favorite Quidditch team is from
Falmouth. Think about it Fal-Mouth. I'll let you get the joke. And if
you don't, you're a dumbass. Dumbass.
Anyway, my step-dad got
me this shitty-ass journal, which now my mum is forcing me to write
in. My step-dad finds it hilarious to refer to it as "Justin's
Journal!". "Having fun writing in J squared, son?".
Sigh.
My parents split when I was five. My dad is a sports
journalist for the Daily Prophet. He writes under the pseudonym of
Mendax (most wicked name ever) Apello. I haven't seen him in a while,
but that's nothing new. He was always following the Falcons, or
heading over to the states to cover a Finch game or two. And by that,
I mean the Fitchburg Finches from Masssalongassname. We always used
to joke about how that team should pay us royalty fees for using our
name. Good times. Great prices.
Speaking of the states, I
might as well go into why I hate my parents. Meaning, as previously
stated, my mother and my step-father. My step-father especially. He's
an American who married my mum two years. I remember those days. The
Pre-Frank days. The good days. Ok, so my mum was depressed almost
constantly, but most of it, I believe, was for show. She used to
bad-mouth my dad all the time, and then talk about how all the men in
Windsor were daft pricks. Aside from that, though, everything was
great. I was being privately tutored by a guy my mum hired named Mr.
Romulus. He was cool. Most of my other friends talked about getting
real stuffy old women who usually lectured them on posture and
smelled like cottage cheese. Mr. Romulus was different. He always
looked hung-over, but he didn't seem like the drinking type. He had a
good sense of humor, and was a really good teacher.
And no, I
wasn't gay over him.
Then Frank rolled around. I mean that
literally, too. Ok, I don't, but still, he did show up in a rather
absurd fashion. Good ole Frankie Fletchley! Here's the wonderful,
romantic story of how my mother met my step-father.
He puked
on her.
Yup.
Puke.
Frank was in England for the
first time. Vacation, which is how most American wizards invade our
country. He was visiting this pub outside of Windsor and was ripped
out of his mind. My mother was down there too. A group of her
girlfriends were there for their weekly support group, or as I like
to call it, "Divorced Inebriated Ladies Drinking Outrageously".
I'm a fan of
acronyms.
Anyway, mum was on her way to the toilets when a
completely sloshed American decided to work his "magic".
His chunky, green magic. My mum, of course, freaked, but then felt
pity. A subsequent number of dates ensued, and after six months,
marriage. I faked sick. Didn't work. Fucking Zonko's.
After
that, Frank moved up here with us, and took a bullshit job at the
Ministry. I think he was some sort of American liaison, helping out
the Ministry whenever questions of American wizards arose. Which was
never. He was at home a lot.
Aside from being a complete moron
who believed that repeating shitty jokes, each time louder than
before, made them comic gold, Frank was also a selfish bastard. He
wasn't a gold-digger or some queer phrase like that, in fact, he was
the bread-winner in the house. My mum occasionally tutored Spanish,
but since no one in Windsor gave a fajita fuck about the language,
she didn't have much business. And by that, I mean she didn't have
any business. At all. Ever. She was home a lot, too.
Back to
why Frank's selfish. Okay, maybe it's not a matter of selfishness, as
it is a matter of pride. Frank never had any children. He was never
married before he met mum. Wonder why. Anyway, after they got
married, Frank asked me if I wanted to change my last name to
Fletchley. I said no. More specifically, fuck no. I got in trouble.
It happens.
Although I declined the distinguished honor of
having a name similar to an act that involves licking semen out of
another person's asshole, my parents decided to fill out all forms
that I was too young to handle (read: they wouldn't let me), with the
name Justin Finch-Fletchley. I believe that this was at the request
of Frank, probably because of my warm-hearted answer to his
not-retarded-as-shit-at-all question.
I must admit, despite my
absolute non-interest in writing in this leather abortion, it has
been quite enjoyable. I guess swearing profusely and bad-mouthing
people we hate is always fun. Like a blowjob. Those are always fun.
So I'm told. By my grandfather. Yeah, sick.
Perhaps I'll
return to these brown paper pages. Perhaps I won't. Deal with it.
-Justin Finch.