This story is all about the use and abuse of clichés, as you might have guessed from the summary. Enjoy!

PLEASE NOTE: The whole story is not in diary format, YOU CAN SKIP TO THE NEXT CHAPTER WITHOUT MISSING MUCH. The next diary entry is Ch.8.

The Diary of a Teenage Loner

Isn't it funny that you don't realise how naïve you are until something bad happens? I mean, you don't just sit there on a lovely summer's day surrounded by sunshine, lollipops and rainbows and decide you are far too innocent for your own good. No, you are usually sitting on the sofa with a carton of ice cream drowning your sorrows over unrequited love or something similar.

Well, okay maybe it isn't funny, but I make an interesting point, don't you think?

I won't keep you in suspense, I don't have the dramatic skills for such a technique, something which I regret everyday of course. (This is the part where you insert the sarcastic cough, feel free to do this yourself). So, me and my girlfriend split up. I know, a sob story at its greatest. To be honest I am not really that upset. I feel slightly regretful for leading her on, but there were not many feelings on my part. I am after all the teenage loner.

The holiday season is upon us! Did anyone else get socks? What is with the socks? I mean, you wait all year for a single day of giving and receiving thoughtful presents and someone decides to give you a pair of socks with some random cartoon character on them? I am tempted to tell Aunty Betsy where to stuff her rotten socks.

Not that I have an Aunty Betsy.

I hate Christmas, I just sit there with my numerous socks, drinking a glass of bad tasting wine with my family playing Pictionary around me. And let me be the first to tell you it is not an enjoyable game on any account, especially when you have the artistic skills of a squashed rodent.

Not that I am aware of the artistic skills of a squashed rodent, I suppose that the random organs surrounded said squashed rodent could be considered modern art, but as they are not responsible for this, it does not count.

I was given this diary for Christmas actually. Gasp! (Feel free to do this as well). Something other than socks? It cannot be! But alas it is, something I can actually use!


Anyway, most diaries are just a record of events, like: 'Me and Aunt Betsy went to the shopping mall today. We bought socks!' But this is not the case with this diary, I can assure you. It is in a depth look into the life of the Teenage Loner; myself. You can laugh at my witty (admit they are witty) remarks, cry at my many failed attempts for searching for the one, cringe at my daily embarrassing moments and of course, realise why it is better to be a teenage loner than a preppy good for nothing rebel without a cause.

See, this would be an appropriate ending for the introduction to said diary. But I have never really cared for normalities. So I am afraid you will have to wait a bit longer for that much needed cup of tea, or desired bathroom break.

I have to introduce myself you see! Fun for all the family! My name is Erik, notice it is spelt with a 'k' please. I am the ripe old age of seventeen years and I am currently fighting my way through college. And I do mean that figuratively, I have the strength of a portable dictionary (and an inability to find appropriate metaphors as you have undoubtedly noticed). I am a thinker, unlike the dunderheads I am usually surrounded with. I am hoping to complete a degree in Philosophy one day, just for the fun of never being wrong.

Lookswise? Sorry to say ladies (or gents) but I am no Brad Pitt, and wouldn't want to be either. I'm rather on the short side unfortunately, standing at a pitiful 5'5". I'm not overweight, or underweight, luckily, you should see Aunty Betsy, the size of a killer whale that one. A fat killer whale that is. Anyways, I have curly black hair, reaching to my shoulders, nothing special, and luckily nothing frizzy. Too pale skin makes me look slightly gothic, but this is a good thing, as people never wish to associate with Goths apart from Goths, and they fear me (insert evil cackle, no you can't do this one, no one is as good a cackler as me!). I do have unusual eyes though. No, they aren't the predictable blue orbs that show kindness and love, or the warm chocolate pools that you want to be lost in. They are yellow. Similar to a cat's, so I have been told, without the funny pupils of course. Cats are independent creatures, and so am I. Perfect.

Now, the almighty knowledge is within your grasp. Straight or gay? Simple answer, I am neither. What? I hear you say! I must be one of them surely! But alas, I am telling the truth. I've never been particularly attracted to either of the sexes, as unfortunately that requires a tolerance of people. I date occasionally, heck, even I get bored of talking to myself, but nothing ever comes out of it. The people are either too sensitive, too demanding, or too annoying.

So, what do I do for leisure? I Read. I have read a lot of books in my relatively short life. Classic literature is my favourite, you just can't beat Leroux or Austen. The thing is the aforementioned hobby of reading has left me with a desire for romance. This is unfortunate, as this means contact with people, and even carrying a conversation. Luckily, it usually takes me around 2.045 seconds to determine if I can tolerate a person, so it does not waste too much precious time.

The teenager loner is looking for romance. Isn't it upsetting? An era has ended, my world has come crashing down, and most of my romance novels have found themselves a new home within the ever useful dustbin, sitting comfortably cushioned on the many socks estranged relatives have thrust on me this Christmas.

Except the Daffy Duck ones of course. They are nestled quite comfortable on my feet.

It's snowing outside currently. My deranged siblings are outside throwing balls of ice at each other. I am practically dancing around the room in excitement of course, I mean, how often do we get to be freezing cold and soaking wet at the same time? (I would recommend not dancing around the room, it produces unnecessary questions from scared family). In my pre-loner days I used to gallop around in the snow for hours, acting like a five year old child. On speed.

Where have the good old days gone? I can think of a few unsavoury places, but I best not share, I would not want to put you off your Eggnog (which is disgusting by the way, so I would really be doing you a favour).

Go my pretties, go enjoy the holiday season, and get ready for the beginning of a rather unusual story of love, loners and you guessed it …



A.N. I hope you liked the first chapter, I was pissing myself writing it. That also gets odd looks by scared relatives by the way. Don't panic, the story won't be in diary mode all the way through.

Reviews/emails/death threats/letters of undying love are all welcome.

Damn, I can't get out of character now.