A/N: Um, okay. So...since this is a journal, there will be entries rahter than "chapters." Thus, the entries won't be considerably long. But there will be a lot of them. (Boy, will there be a lot of them.) There is romance in this story, so if you're in suspense, be patient. (: And enjoy.

Entry one:

So, since you’re reading this, you obviously want to hear my story. You want to know what I think, what I feel, what I hear. And so you’re going to get. I’ll begin with the basics:

I am Alexis Janet Miller. I am sixteen. I am a sophomore.

I enjoy violent video games, chocolate with almonds, and sweatpants. I do not wear makeup; I do not go to parties, drink or smoke. I find the way girls/women dress today to be absolutely degrading to the rest of the women population. (Please, if you are one of these girls/women, do the world a favor and put on some damn clothes.) My iPod is my life; you will most likely never see me headphoneless. I maintain good grades (A’s, B+’s); I tend to lean toward the lazy side rather than the active. I am not stick-thin, nor am I Sumo-wrestler obese. I find today’s culture to be rather depressing (Why couldn’t I be born in the 1800s? Like in Jane Eyre? Despite the whole no-electronics bit, life back then would’ve been a hell of a lot easier) not to mention an insult to human beings. Can we please concentrate on other, more important things than bleached-to-the-point-of-no-longer-being-blonde-but-white bimbos who have nothing better to do than buy a 2,000 pair of designer jeans? A 6,000 purse? A 10,000 pair of earrings? Does how much money spent really show that you’re “cool”? “Better”? Well, to me, it shows that you’re a dumbass who’d rather carry something worth the same as a freaking Plasma TV on your shoulder. Or a dumbass that’d rather wear something that’s worth the same as a Convertible on your earlobe. (Again, if you buy such things, please, please go jump off a cliff.) I feel that if you’re “better” or “cool,” you definitely don’t need to buy things to show said better/coolness off. Because “cool” people don’t really know they’re “cool.” Unless someone tells them they are. Even then, they are doubtful.

Get it? Good.

My closest friends can be a pain in the neck sometimes (even remind me of the retarded bimbos stated above at their worst). I really don’t understand why we’re friends. Sheer luck, I guess. Because, really, I am the complete opposite of all three of them. Naturally, they’re all alike. Or so it seems to me.

Jessie: A tiny warrior. Blue-eyed blondie. Stubborn as hell. I butt heads with her almost every day. And yet we’re still friends, after knowing each other our (well, my) whole li(fe)ves. Odd, but true.

Famous Catchphrase(s): “Let’s get dolled up,” “Cute,” “Boys are pigs”

Kristen: Doe-eyed and petite. I almost think she was born blonde, but somehow mutated. (Kristen, if you happen to be reading this, you know it’s true.) Some will call her shy, but it’s a lie. She’s a funny one, and always good for a laugh.

Famous Catchphrase(s): “Ohhh,” “Gotcha,” “I can put my hips wherever I want!” (Nothing sexual, I swear.)

Callie: She just so happens to have that blonde-white head of hair — and it’s not because of chemicals. (Thank God.) The things that come out of her mouth can never be foreseen. Easily confused. Basketball fanatic. Another blue-eyed babe. (Do you see my problem here?)

Famous Catchphrase(s): “You’re an odd one,” “Puh-lease,” “Pshhh,” “Um, what?”

My family can be a pain in the ass. (Notice I didn’t use the word neck; it can get pretty ruthless in the Miller household.) I would say I love them, but I’m not quite sure what love is. Give anything for them? Run in front of a bus that’s heading straight toward them? Get a bullet in the head?

To be honest, I’d rather not be a sacrificial lamb, thank you. But I do care deeply for them.

Dad (Alan): At least six-five. Rough (and white) mustache and beard. Unlike the color of his facial hair, his head still remains its same shade since childhood: black. Very tan, unlike his offspring (meaning me). Deep, Darth-Vader-like voice. (And yes, he does scare children.)

Mom (Kim): Five-eight (now the second shortest person in the family). Size nine in shoe (“Can you believe I’ve got the smallest foot in the house?” she always asks people). Gray as Merlin’s beard but dyes her locks brown. (She says she’s giving that up when she turns 50. Yeah. Right.)

Big brother (Quintin, aka Q-ball): Six-foot? Maybe? 27 years young. Brown-eyed devil. Moved out for college at 18. Likes to think he can still take on his little sister (me), even though she can kick his ass without breaking a sweat. Quintessentially a dork at heart.

Little sister (Victoria, aka Tori): Another brown-eyed devil. Currently 14 years of age. Most likely a witch or some sort of sorceress. (The way she charms my parents to get whatever she wants/out of trouble is the devil’s work.) Messy as a pig (and the room we share is her pigpen).

All of Alan and Kim’s three children are abnormally Viking-like. We have large (and wide) feet. We are tall. We make the best of what we are given. For example, having wide, large feet means that most of the shoes that you want you can’t have. High-heels? Say au revoir! Those sleek leather boots? (Just imagine if your feet could talk, for the purpose of this example.) “Hell freaking no,” your feet say as they glimpse the cowhide and the overall shininess of the boot.

That is how I live. Sound a-ma-zing, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.