|True Confessions of Evan Lyndee
Author: Kioko1 PM
The journal of a sadistic, sarcastic teenager who lives up in the middle of nowhere and is forced to write in the aforementioned journal to control his personalitly/agression problems.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor - Chapters: 2 - Words: 2,672 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 3 - Updated: 11-26-03 - Published: 10-03-03 - id: 1413631
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Confinement Chamber: Bed
In other futile attempt to understand my horrible behavior, Mom has given me a diary.
Yes, a diary.
She didn't call it that when she gave it to me at dinner. No, she called it a journal, but they're the same thing. I looked it up in the Thesaurus to be sure. (I'd know it's the same thing as a diary even if I hadn't. Do you really think I'm that stupid?)
After she handed me this cleverly disguised diary at the dinner table, I handed it right back to her and said, "I don't need this."
"Oh yes you do, Evan," she replied, shoving the diary back into my hands. "And you're going to write in it at least once a day."
"Right," I said, giving her a look. "What makes you think I'll do that?"
"If you don't write in it, Evan," Mom said in her sugary-sweet voice of doom. "You won't be going to your archery competition in two months."
She left it at that and than asked Beau how his book was coming along.
So now I'm stuck writing in this stupid thing if I want to go to my competition. She's even going to check up on me at periodic intervals to make sure I'm really writing in it! And people actually wonder why I have personality problems?!
Well, her motives for giving me this cleverly-digusied-notebook-which-shall-be-called-a-journal-but-in-actualilty-is-a-diary are quite obvious. She thinks it's better for my psyche (and the bank account's too, no doubt) that I confess all my problems to something that won't try and diagnose me with disorders every time I open up to it.
It's also probable that she thinks that I will open up more to a piece of paper than to an actual human being. Or so the teller on the Advice Hotline told me before one of the techies recognized my phone number. Then the company manager got on the line and informed me that if I ever called again, I would be charged with harassment and would also get sued. He didn't even try and listen when I told him that I actually had a problem this time and wasn't trying to imitate the psycho man in Phone Booth, hold up all the lines, or pretend I had multiple personalities that could only quote lines from Al Pacino and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. (Honestly, don't any of these people watch Crank Yankers?)
Anyway, at least my brothers found the situation hilariously funny – up until I put some of my leftover fireworks in their rooms, that is.
After careful consideration, I have decided to no longer call this…thing the d-word or a journal, for the d-word is much to girly and 'journal' can lead people into believing that it is actually a d-word in disguise. (My 'careful consideration' came to me after my older brother, Myles, came into my room, woke me up, and asked in his girlyish voice-which actually sounded like a gorilla who had inhaled too much helium-if I had found my inner girl after writing in my diary last night. I responded by whipping out my slingshot and shooting him between the eyes with a marble.)
I already looked through the Thesaurus for a synonym for the d-word, but all the words listed were either quite obvious or could be taken the wrong way when spoken out loud (take for instance, 'confession' or 'scandal sheet'). Right now, I'm looking through some old magazines for an interesting name and having no luck at all.
I suspect I'm going to be here all freaking day…
Caught sight of Myles and his goons coming up the front walk. I had to retreat upstairs to the study before I could be subjected to horrible taunting over my various 'issues' and possibly the d-word.
I still haven't found another name for the d-word.
I thought about asking Beau-my younger, less annoying brother-for some help, but my pride wouldn't stand for that.
My old quack of a psychiatrist – Smitherson – said once that I'm stubborn.
"Well, duh." I had said. "I'm a red head. Most red heads are stubborn, Smitherson."
After I said that, he went on about how that's a stereotype and how I stereotype everything he says, which concludes that stereotyping is probably the cause of my bad attitude. But then I pointed out that nearly everyone stereotypes people they don't know, so shouldn't everyone have a bad attitude like mine? He turned red and decided that I had an Antisocial Personality Disorder soon after.
After reviewing my first three entries above, I thought to myself, "Mom only bought this thing to be a replacement for my psychiatrist, right? So why don't I just name the thing like a psychiatrist?"
Hence, from this day forward, this notebook shall be referred to only as Doctor Fitzgerald.
Who'd suspect a name like that?
11:20 AM (Postscript): Turns out someone like Beau would.
I woke up an hour ago to find that Myles had eaten all the waffles, which are my favorite breakfast food. I'm sure he did it all out of pure spite, instead of being the hungry teenage boy he is, as Mom suggested. After she told me that, she also voiced her opinion that was being too paranoid again. (Well, I wonder why I started being paranoid in the first place, mother-who-signed-note-that-allowed-surveillance-cameras-to-be-placed-in-my-locker.)
Following my horrible breakfast of Raisin Bran, Myles takes it upon himself to spite me again by inviting Lesley Stooshnoff over to play paintball.
Good Doctor, what did I ever do to deserve this punishment?
12:36 AM (Postscript): By the way, that was a rhetorical question, seeing as though you already have enough evidence from my previous entries to contradict that statement above.
I'm on the roof to avoid him. Hopefully Myles isn't feeling overly sadistic today and won't lock me out up here like he did on New Years two years ago.
I bet you're feeling quite left out, Doctor, so I shall inform you of exactly why I detest the creature Lesley Stooshnoff (as if his name isn't good enough reason).
Lesley talks, acts, and dresses like a black, but he's actually white. He started acting like this ever since our cable company got MTV. I used to find this quite entertaining-because I knew that if Lesley went to the Bronx and acted like that, he'd get his ass kicked-but now it's just plain annoying, especially his slang.
Unfortunately, I was able to hear his greeting of, "Yo! 'Sup, my homie! How's thangs hangin' in da hood?" from all the way up here. I wish he'd just think about what he's saying before he actually says it.
I don't know what 'hood' he's talking about because there definitely isn't one where we live. We're fifteen miles from any town and the only neighbors we have are the family of raccoons that are down the road about two miles. It would be more appropriate if he would have asked, "How's thangs hangin' in the boondocks?"
Mom finds his slang annoying too. Every time he comes over for dinner, she always looks like she wants to bash him over the head with a frying pan to get him to stop talking. Mom hates it when people don't use proper English, but I think that's partially because she majored in English and is considered to be one of the toughest book reviewers in the country. (Romance novelists hate her guts. It's funny to open her hate mail.)
I don't understand why Superintendent Freeman feels that more counseling time be dedicated to my 'aggressive outbursts' (I only broke the gym teacher's nose once, for crying out loud.) than to Lesley's obvious identity crisis.
Confinement Chamber: Bookshelf
I ended up playing paintball with the two of them yesterday. After I successfully kicked their asses twenty-one times, they decided they had had enough of my winning streak and ended up burying me in a pile of sand. They then left and hoped that no one would ask questions or find my body.
Unfortunately for them, I came down to breakfast today. After making sure Mom wasn't looking, I flicked both of them off, grabbed my breakfast, and walked back up to my room. Mom doesn't like it when I do that, but I'd rather invoke her god-awful anger than lose one of my limbs before archery season starts.
I did see a rather funny thing as I was walking up the stairs. Marked on the square of August 15th, was the name Rapid City in Mom's handwriting. That's the city in South Dakota that we usually do all our important shopping at, seeing as though there are no good stores up in the Northeast corner of Wyoming. But there's nothing important coming up to go shopping for, so why's she mark it?
Stairs: 13th step
I asked Beau about this strange notation on the calendar. He gave me this look and said, "We're going school shopping, you moron."
Excuse me while I go drown myself in our creek.