A/N
Hai there, this is my first ever story and it's a short story. I hope you enjoy, and please don't copy my story if you like it I'm glad, but I kinda worked hard on this so thank you.
"Ugh, this is so cringey," I thought to myself. I ripped out the paper, crumpled it up, and threw it into the recycling bin.
I missed. So I had to get up out of my comfortable position, pick it up, and throw it away myself. Don't you just hate that? Anyway, as I walked back to my seat, I was debating with myself about what I should write about in my journal. People at my school tease me because they know I write in it. It's how I get through the day without yelling at anyone and I don't have any friends to rant to, so I write. People always call it a diary but that seems a bit too girly. So, I just call it a journal. A very manly journal.
Hmm.. maybe I should write about my day.. No, I do that everyday and the story is starting to get a little boring and depressing which is what I don't want. So far what I have is endless whining about how my life sucks, how I have no friends, how my parents expect way too much from me, and this girl that I like in my class named Naomi.
Oh Naomi, sweet, beautiful, heartless Naomi. She thinks I'm weird, but it's okay because I am. I always say to myself, "No one can make you look stupid because you already are." So jokes on those plain humans.
I looked down and didn't even notice that I was writing. But I can't be because I didn't date it or anything. I always date my writing, it's a flipping process. It's okay Alex, calm down and just restart.
December 01, 2016
Hey Malarkey, which is what I call my journal. I don't know what to write about, so basically I'll start with what I always start with -- writing about my day. My day was another bummer. You get the routine. I go to school, get bullied by both teachers and students, which by the way sucks, but you already knew that. I go home, and sneak some makeup to cover up another black eye that Elena gave me. Yep, my bully is a girl. How ironic. I'm pretty sure that I'm the only boy who is scared of girls, and wears makeup. But wait, there's more. The reason she hates me so much is because in first grade I accidently knocked down her blocks. Come on man, that was eight years ago. I mean woman. I don't even know. She looks like a girl, but boy can she punch. But anyway, we are freshmen in highschool, and she's still holding a grudge. And I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I mean I made it this far only because of my brain. The only thing I'm good at is eating, being lazy, listening to music, lying, procrastinating, and track. Maybe I'll get into college with a track and field scholarship. That's another reason why people make fun of me. Apparently track is a sport for the weak. Football, basketball, heck any other sport would be "manlier" than track because track makes me look like a "wuss". Without track I wouldn't be able to run away from these insults, hits, disencouragement, and other things without stopping to catch my breath or say, "I need a snack." I don't think I'm weak, I believe I'm strong, and even though I'm not happy with the way my freshman year is going, I love what I'm doing and I'll continue to do what I love because I don't give two craps about what people have to say about me. Instead, I worry about what I'm going to have for dinner when I come home from that prison of inhumane humans.
"That was a good ending," I said aloud, while giving myself a pat on the back. I wonder if Malarkey ever gets tired of me ranting about my life. I should buy him a new sticker for his cover. That's like a thank you for being my best friend, and sticking with me when I have no one else.
I left to go to the store. It's not a far walk from my house. I actually don't mind the walk because it gives me more time to think, instead of thinking too much at night only to go to bed at 1 am, and be falling asleep while taking notes in math. Sometimes I have weird nightmares which involves people dying in the weirdest ways. My imagination scares me sometimes.
