The Diary of the American TeenagerMature

NOTE: Names and places have been changed to fictional places and names for privacy reasons.

June the 30th, 2012


Dear diary,

I suppose your name really isn’t diary because this is actually a Microsoft Word document, but dear ‘document’ sounds strange so I’m going to call you ‘diary’.

After reading a very entertaining book called, The Year of Secret Assignments, I’ve decided to start writing my thoughts out once more. Before, I stopped because my parents enjoy snooping around my personal things when I don’t act they way they want me to. According to The Year of Secret Assignments, parents must respect children’s privacy according to law. I have reason to believe the book took place in Wales so I doubt the law applies to the United States as well.

Another reason I’m typing is because I’m bored out of my mind. The power went out yesterday from a terrible storm that raged through our little valley. Right before everything shut off the television was screaming at us about severe thunderstorm warnings, but like we always do, we ignored it, kept calm and carried on. That is, until the TV went dark along with every other source of entertainment at our disposal. Then my father and I started pacing the house, panicking, while my mother sat there half asleep, like always, not really caring that the lights had gone out and the wind was howling like a banshee outside. Eventually my dad started the generator so we would have lights and my mom could take a shower – she had to go to work you see.

Leaves got pulled from the trees, thrown about all over kingdom come. The leaves weren’t the only victims of the storm. A large tree was uprooted. Unfortunately it landed on our driveway making it impossible to pass by. My mother works midnights so the tree had to be moved. Papa (That’s what I call my father) and I grabbed our flashlights and trekked down the gravel driveway to the tree. Mama (That’s my mother) drove our Blazer down to shine the headlights on it so we could see. In the Blazer were the portable generator and the chainsaw. Papa started chopping the tree up, but right away he stopped and scrambled away from it.

“There’s poison ivy all over it,”

It had to fall on our driveway of all places. Papa and I climbed back up the steep driveway to the house and changed into long sleeved clothing, tugging on whatever gloves we had. I had one gardening glove and one latex glove. He had on the only pair of good gloves.

While I put up my hair, Papa went down to continue chopping the tree into little bits. I ran out the door, ignoring the whimpers of my dog, Sophie, and jogged down to the fallen tree.

I yanked off my promise ring that was preventing my latex glove from sliding onto my left hand and left it with Mama for safe keeping. Together, Papa and I cleared the driveway so that Mama could get to work safely. He and I finished the night by watching some old episodes of Stargate Universe and I watched a little bit of Doctor Who in my room on my laptop. Nothing like the Doctor to cheer you up on a day without power. It was series three when he first met Donna and Martha. I loved Martha’s face when she realized he had two hearts instead of one, the Doctor lying there in the hospital bed looking up at her like she was the best nurse in the world.

God I love that show.

The best part about the storm and the power outages is there’s even less of a chance that my ex boyfriend/psychopath stalker will attempt to contact me again. He’s obsessed with me and frankly the feeling is far from mutual. I always take pity on the poor saps that have no girlfriends. They all end up either crybabies or just straight up weird. Not that I’m one to talk – but there’s a difference between weird and creepy weird. I am not creepy weird. I don’t lower my voice to a really deep bass sound and say that you smell good. I don’t make strange noises and flail my arms in the air, chest bumping with my buddies. I don’t cry and beg for someone I ‘love’, quote unquote, to come back because I’m so sorry and I can change, blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses. Also, I don’t wear a top hat and have poor hygiene. My choice of boys has been rather poor. This is due to the fact I live smack dab in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Here, power outages are as common as stray cats. Camouflage is the new black and horse crap apparently grows on the bottoms of ones shoes. ‘Fuck’ is used in everyday conversation and ‘ain’t’ is actually considered a real word. Every other car has rust on it. If it’s not a truck however, then it’s simply trash no matter what kind of car it is or what condition it’s in.

I long for the cities I see in the movies with impossibly tall skyscrapers; with subways that run beneath the ground like veins run beneath the skin. Where your internet signal is always perfect and people run and scream with they see a hillbilly. I would be right at home with city dwellers. Unfortunately I’m stuck here in the little town of Dulldale, population – sorry we’re too small to even count the population.

During the school year, my bus ride every morning and every evening takes two hours. This is because there are so many children hidden in the little valleys scattered all over the hills and because we all live a fair distance from the nearest school.

Also, my school is an agriculture (AG) school dedicated to the future farmers of America (FFA). One of these days I’m going to blow up the AG room so that they’ll be forced to convert the wasted space into more classrooms. That way we can have more than one foreign language. I don’t want to learn Spanish. Who in their right mind would want to learn Spanish? The Mexicans are taking over America, one illegal immigrant and Taco Bell at a time – I won’t have them invading my home, my life! I won’t speak their filthy tongue…until this fall when I have to take the class and I’ll be forced to unless I want to get a bad grade.

I’ve always wanted to learn French. Both my first name and my last name are French. My first name means ‘Victory of the People’. My last name comes from people who made shoes, so it basically means ‘cobbler’ or ‘shoemaker’. So I suppose my name altogether, including my middle name (which is Joy), would be ‘Victory of the Joyous Shoemakers’. I’m never going to France. Think of the looks people would give me when I told them my name! Who on Earth names their child ‘Victory of the Joyous Shoemakers’? My mother that’s who. I suppose she didn’t look up what the name actually meant – she just thought it would be a sweet name for her daughter. I go by the shortened version of it, with two k’s. (Have you figured out what my real name actually is yet?) I like my first name regardless; ‘Victory of the People’. It inspired my penname ‘Victoria Glass’. Why Glass for the last name? I don’t know, I just thought it sounded good with Victoria.

Things got a bit confusing last year when a certain Richard Shoemaker (Of no relation to me despite his flaming red hair) decided to steal the notebook I’d put my story ideas in. Richards a horrid troublemaker that enjoys harassing me because it makes me red in the face – in other words, very, very angry. He saw my penname and decided to tell Victoria S. I’d stolen her name. I’d done nothing of the sort. I’d chosen the name long before I’d even noticed Victoria’s existence. When we were both in Crowtown Community Children’s Choir (Victoria S. and I), my kind (the crazy group that laughed too loud and never paid attention) didn’t interfere with her kind (the girls who were overly concerned with their makeup and clothes). It was amongst my kind that I met my future-best-friend, River Husky. She was a bit too rambunctious for my fragile psyche but we became steadfast acquaintances all the same. Many years later we met again on our bus and became friends even though she was a grade lower than me.

It was because of Richard that Victoria S. chose to hate me. My theory is she thought I was actually talking about her or something strange in the journal. It didn’t help that Richard showed the majority of my grade a picture I’d drawn of a naked boy and a naked girl kissing. I hadn’t drawn any provocative parts on them – I was planning on drawing the clothes in later. When I got my notebook back it was ruined, along with the rest of its contents, so I was forced to throw it away.

Richard and I have been enemies since the day I set foot on his side of the property line. I was taking horseback riding lessons from his grandmother (Who turned out to be something of a witch. She was a very cruel woman. My mother made sure I never went back there again). I was somewhat friends with his younger sister, Alexia, and Richard decided to be mean to be just like his grandmother. I was never mean to him in the beginning – until he royally pissed me off.

And so it was that our rivalry began. I hate him with a passion for all the things he’s done. I hope that one day he’ll wake up and realize that he has done terrible, unspeakable things. At the beginning of the summer, we were visited by a police officer asking for him. It is obvious that he is a troublemaker, with the law and with the school.

My red hair makes everyone think I’m related to him. Nobody believes me when I tell them that even though we have the same last name, we’re not related. They think I’m a liar. I am on the bottom rung of the social ladder and that makes me untrustworthy to the rest of society.

I hope that one day I’ll live my dream, become a famous author, and prove that even we, the scum of the earth, can be great. With God, all things are possible.

I bid thee adieu, reader. My laptop battery is at sixty two percent and falling.


-Victoria Glass

The End

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