Entry One

9/5 10:20 AM

Dear collected thoughts of the teenage inquiry,

My new creative writing teacher is requiring me to write in a diary every week. I find it a great inconvenience in my busy life and it's not like I can tell my friends that the notebook I'm carrying around is my diary. Talk about a major down grade on my manhood. So, I'm going to call this stupid diary my collected thoughts of the teenage inquiry. I just hope to god my idiotic teacher was speaking the truth when she said she wasn't going to read through this, but just count the pages. I could fill these pages with random sentences on the fact that I don't give a s**t. But in case my teacher is a liar who has nothing else to do but to fill her nights with the words of hormonal teenagers, I'll try to do the assignment to the best of my abilities which means to write exactly what I'm thinking.

I really should have taken art.

However, since my stupid friend suggested creative writing instead of art because of the hot new teacher, I thought, "why the hell not?" Of course, out of the two creative writing teachers present at this school, I just had to get the old broad, Mrs. Sanchez, instead of the one with the nice cans. To make matters worse, my friend, Jaxon, has been bragging about her b***s ever since we started school about a week ago. Just in case you're reading this, Mrs. Sanchez, I don't think you don't have nice b***s. I'm just not into older women.

Okay, maybe I over stepped my boundaries just a tad. Although the topic of breasts is a great occurrence in the conversations I have with my friends, it is probably not the best thing to go into full detail about in a school assignment. Especially since this is the first assignment I'm actually doing by myself.

You could say I'm a bit of a slacker. I mean, why do your own homework when you've got friends that let you copy theirs? I guess I could learn a little more if I did my own, but when do you have time for fun when you've got a mountain of homework to do? I'm sixteen. I'm supposed to have fun now, then later in life I can suffer from my job. At least I'll get paid to suffer. I wish I got paid to go to school. That's something that'll help you wake up in the morning.

I don't really know what else to say. I mean how do you even write one of these things. Mrs. Sanchez said to write about what I was thinking, but all I'm thinking about is pizza... and how boring this lecture is. And pizza.

Though I should be paying attention to the topic of photosynthesis in my biology class, I have to admit, this writing thing really occupies my time tremendously. I doubt Mr. Towns can tell if the words I'm frantically writing is in fact homework for a different class and not detailed notes on his unappealing ways of teaching us.

Luckily we all got a break from his monotone voice when some guy put a rat down a girl's shirt. While every girl was screaming like babies, we were laughing hysterically especially when the girls banned together and beat that punk kid to a pulp. Without anyone knowing, I grabbed the small rat that ran under my table and tried to sneak the little guy out the window. Too bad I didn't realize I'm on the second story of the science building. I probably should have thought of that before I put him on the ledge and watched him run off the side and into his ultimate death. That really bummed me out.

While they are searching for the rat, I'm grateful I can fill these pages up with something even if my topics so far consists of breasts and rats. I promise I'll write more when I figure out what to write, but hey, it's only third period.

2:30 PM

It's sixth period and I'd rather pour out my innermost thoughts into a gay journal than listen to my history teacher talk about... whatever the hell happened in the past. Honestly, I don't care. I mean I really don't care. To the point where I can write a whole paragraph about how much I don't care. I'm serious.

But damn, there's this hot chick that sits diagonal from me and I can tell she's checking me out. I don't know her name, though. That could be because in a week, I've only been in this class twice. This being the second time and as the minutes tick by, she's becomes the only thing I want to make history with.

I can tell you exactly how it's going to happen. I know her type. The minute I walk up to her, she's going to pretend like I'm not even there. She'll make me work for it. All the while, she'll be internally begging me to ask her out, but I'm not that type of guy. I'm going to flirt, maybe mention a few things about a movie that just came out, and she'll think she's got me wrapped around her little finger. Right when it's the perfect time to ask her out, I'll just leave. I won't look back. I won't even acknowledge her existence. That's when she'll break. She'll try to get my attention, but it's going to be hard because I will try my best to ignore her. And when she gets desperate enough, she drag me into a closet and well, you know.

But you'll have to wait till my next entry to see if things go as planned, Mrs. Sanchez. My history teacher is wrapping things up and there's only five minutes left of class. This is it for today, and I'll be too preoccupied after school to write anything else. The bell is about to ring; here goes nothing.

-Mace