Official Property of Cindy Clint
Cynthia Anne Clint
Sex: Female; currently sexually inactive
Eye color: Green
Hair: Blonde (and not dumb)
Address: 46 Cornelia Court
BE WARNED: ANYONE WHO TOUCHES, BREATHES OR SEES THIS JOURNAL WILL DIE.
(unless the author decides to post it on some website where people CAN see it and review it...)
Dear Diary and soon- to -be most famous, boring book that has been published in the future,
My name's Cindy. Nice to meet you. I would shake your hand but as you already have noticed, I'm currently in book and you're somewhere. My life is pretty bland. I'm an average teenager attending an average high school in an average town. Springfield's pretty decent. I mean, there's not a lot of a murder, rapes, or prostitution. We have a local store, video store, and public library.
You're probably wondering why I'm writing this book. Aren't books supposed to have characters who are outcasts or complete psychos? Nah, this is just my life. So if you have a short attention span or hate me (which I don't know why since you've never met) find another book.
Are you still there? Good. Now we can get on with our lives. As I was saying before you interrupted me, Springfield wouldn't be on the list of top 100 weirdest towns. Our lives are not Stepford Wives- ish. My family is a science-freak dad, a bossy, perfect lawyer mom, and a hairy dog known as Chet, my little brother. They drive me absolutely crazy sometimes but hey, they're blood.
I have one best friend. His name is Chris Chichino. Doesn't that last name sound Italian? Chichino. Chi-chino. I'm waving my little Italian hands right now. But its not, his family's from Poland. Weird, eh? Both of us are like Peanut butter and jelly. Not that I'm comparing my self to a preservative or anything. But we're match made in heaven. Beavus and Butthead but scratch the stupidity.
How we met you ask? Well, actually it's a real knock-out story. Please try to contain your enthusiasm. For people who don't want to here it and would rather stick something up their asses, I say go ahead, but I bet you'll regret it. For those who are just pathetic losers with nothing to do and want to hear it, listen up.
It was a stormy night. Darkness and coldness took over the skies; the lightning thundered; trees swayed violently as the bitter wind blew. Then suddenly-hey, doesn't this sound corny to you? I sound like the old guy on the show wearing the cotton sweater and old loafers with trains surrounding him. Am I that old? No, I'm only freakin' 16, for God's sake. Anyways, long story short, my sweet American mother, Elaine Patrice, got pregnant with me due to doing some "activity" in 1989.
One day while she was watching Jerry Springer, the show with bickering women and transsexuals, (you know the show don't you?) her water (or actually her amniotic sac, the thing that held me in my mother's womb for like 9 months) broke. My dad was watching Discovery channel, the health version since he was so fascinated with the Rhesus factor in blood, when he heard me mom's scream--a scream so loud, it could have woken up the dead.
So as any nervous expected dad, he ran all over the house, literally yelling "Hallelujah" as he frantically packed my mom's undies and a year supply of designer clothes. Then he got into his red Nissan and drove off.
Without my mother.
But as he turned left on the corner near my house, he realized one tiny important thing he forgot and drove back. My mom was hysteric, and that is not an exaggeration. She was screaming and kicking, crying, "Get her the "enter desired cuss" out of me, Jim (my dad)!""Get her OUT (and blah, blah, blah)!!"
Don't you realize that so far there was not one mention of the name 'Chris'? Well, I'm getting there. See, my parents drove to Maritime Hospital in Springfield and checked in. But it happened to be a full moon night, meaning: fat, chubby women with people growing inside them were coming in faster than you can say, 'Jalapeño!".
SO she had to be put into the same room as another woman. Okay, now this is a challenge. Guess who the other woman is, just guess.
C'mon, you can do it. C'mon. (Please, don't make me say this, I sound like I'm encouraging a pregnant woman to "push!") It s funny coincidence I'm mentioning this while I'm telling a story about them...
Duh, da, duh, duh, duh da duh.
It's Chris's mother, you hippogriff! If you're gonna be like this all the time, just stop reading now. Save me the torture.
Chris's mother, now a 43- year -old interior designer, was pregnant with my best friend and her water broke the same day my mom's did. And they were also dilated at the same time. Chris and I were born at the exact same hour, only from different uteruses. Anyways, after I was brought home from the clinic, my mom and Chris's mom met up and talked and POOF, they became best friends instantly. Strange how fate works isn't it?