Look up the word miserable in a dictionary and you'll find a picture of me lying flat on my back on a hard wooden board surrounded by the remains of a shredded straw matress.
What do you mean there isn't?
Well, there should be.
I've been shut up in this room for the past three days, doing absolutely nothing and being bored out of my mind. No, scratch that, I've been bored out of my mind for the past five decades!
My life stinks.
Being a servant to Horrific Hermin and doing nothing but the mindless drudgery of mind-numbingly mundane tasks he sets me to do is no job for a djinn. Let alone one with as much power and potential as me.
The worst part is that I have nothing better to do than write all my gripes down here in this worn, battered, sat-on-looking book.
The book technically belongs to Hippo Hermin, but seeing as he obviously had no use for the thing I took it.
Perhaps out of curiosity.
Probably out of spite.
To be honest, I don't know why I bothered. It's not like I can do anything remotely productive with it. I don't have an amazing, mind-blowing adventure of a life to make a biography of.
My life is something more of a complaint-fest.
As I said before, I probably took this damned book just for the sake of it. So, if you exist and are reading these pages, don't get excited. I doubt you'll find any form of excitement in here.
Unless you find this sort of thing amusing of course.
Oh curses. Horrible Hermin's screaming at me again. I've obviously done something wrong, without even doing anything.
Time to go collect bruises.