Bella, age ten.

God, why in the world my mother makes me write in this stupid "diary" is a mystery to me. It's not like I have problems. But, hey, I at least have to pretend like I'm writing in this stupid kitty-notebook with rainbows and flowers.

So, I guess I'll write something.

Apparently, today, I ate a sandwich.

James PUT A FROG IN MY SANDWICH.

AND THAT IS NOT FUNNY, ESPECIALLY SINCE I ATE HALF OF IT THEN PUKED MY BRAINS OUT ALL THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL.

Ah screw him.

So, you know what, James?

FUCK YOU.

I HATE YOU.

I HOPE YOU DIE.

Now, excuse me as I go fall up the stairs to get to my emo corner. I must write some more emo poetry and daydream about people who sparkle.

If I don't write back, it's probably because I flushed this cursed thing down the toilet, so bye.

And yeah. I have something against you.