Dear Diary,

First if all, I'm not writing this diary because I've been forced to. I mean, yeurk, imagine your TEACHER (!) wanking over your diary entry, which implies you ran strip naked across the landing, because you forgot your towel, and there's a high possibility your brother's best friend copped an eyeful.

But I'll come to that later. Now, I just fancy writing an introduction of sorts about the crappy world, that is my life. My brother has a big part to play in this. So OK, he's older than me by ONE measly year but somehow that gave him rights to be God. And how does he abuse these rights?

Yeah, that's right. By making himself look cool. In front of his mates. By picking/blaming everything on his little sister. Jeez, I may as well have scapegoat tattooed to my forehead. Compared to my bro, his best friend almost seems the perfect gentleman. And when you start to consider BRUCE SOLOMON as a gentle giant, that's when you know things are disastrously wrong.

Thankfully, Jase (my bro) over the years, has become more and more of an sporting icon. He's the star player across all five sports, our school competes in and has even organised rallies outside the Principal's window, campaigning for the right of introducing a cheer squad to flash about their pom-poms and wiggle their micro-sized butts in teeny-weeny skirts.

You may have thought that I'd have become incredibly jealous over his ever-increasing popularity, but believe you me, I was ECSTATIC that Jase would be so busy batting/kicking/breast-stroking/WHATEVER that I actually kissed him on the cheek when he announced it over dinner one night. When Jase promptly spat on his sleeve and scrubbed his cheek furiously with a disgusted look on his face, I pretended I wasn't offended and hid my face in the brussel sprouts.

The only thing that has kept me rooted this past decade or so, is my best friend Ruth. Ruth, needless to say hates her name, and many a time I had to sit through her rants of how OLD her name was and why couldn't she have a cool name like "Jessica." The one time I pointed out that at least she wasn't called "Pineapple", earned me a cold shoulder for approximately a week.

It hadn't helped that Bruce overheard (what was he doing outside my bedroom door? The washroom was miles away!) and he'd spread it to the whole track team. But who did Ruth blame?

That's right. ME. It's not my fault that her whole English class calls her Pineapple whenever they see her. Plus, she should've been grateful that I didn't say "shit-head" that day in my bedroom. Jeez.

But hey, that's gratitude for you.