We have to write "anonymous" diaries, for the rest of the school year, to be read by a classmate. Joy. From my tone, I'll bet whomever's reading this will know who I am in an instant.

It's...interesting. People call me a freak show, strange, weird, crazy, mental (...the list goes on and on), when there's another boy in my class who also stays by himself. But do you know the difference, my dear reader? He is admired, and I, who tries so little yet so hard to stand out, am not.

I observe people. Their emotions and reactions to various things, to be precise. If I tried, I could fit in with the crowd, have many friends, but it's too troublesome. I'd really rather not. And that is why, when everyone quickly swarmed to each other in order to be partnered with their friends, their loves, I was left alone.

Perhaps the instructor of that hour pitied me. However, I hate pity, sympathy, being looked down upon. I don't mind being called names, because that is done behind my back, showing that I am one to be feared. But pairing a loner like me with a boy like him, whose name everyone knows? That's obviously pity.

He's not that bad of a guy. He won't force conversation onto me, and works quickly and efficiently. Maybe that's why people like him. Well, whatever. That doesn't concern me at all.

"What are you to Jon?" She asked me, her gaze shaky, but stern. "Who?" I ask lazily, not really focusing on the question. "Um, him?" She points to the guy whom I was partnered with yesterday.

"I don't know?" She, understandably, becomes angry at this response. Then she huffs and walks away. Whatever that meant.

There's a little bird outside the window. It tweets and chirps, only to hit its head on the glass. And it repeats the process a few more times. Stupid bird, learn from your mistakes. If you hit your head when you're the only one moving, then stop hitting your head. I roll my eyes and continue reading the novel I slipped into my textbook.

That bird died the next day.

I got the best score on the test in the grade. 110%, apparently. That boy...Jacob, was it, scored 100%. Well, he was a bit tired out. Maybe he had been studying all night for it. That's impressive, I guess. Then I crumple up the paper and toss it into the wastebasket. I, who doesn't know how to work the right way, don't deserve a good grade. I itch to retrieve it, but a girl spits her gum on it. Shame. But then again, I could've done better. The score was up to 125%.

I hate perfection. Flawlessness is a lie, because even if something appears seamless, the inside will be filled with deformities. But maybe I do yearn for perfection, such as everyone else. For people to be "normal", happiness balanced with misery, and most of all, ignorant.

Because ignorance is bliss.

Jacob (or Jonathan, as I am informed) is silent today. Not that he typically isn't, but today feels eerie. His eyes aren't warm, or however teen lit. authors would describe that. Honestly, I think it's kinda impossible for one's eyes to appear warm or cold, individually. If someone's staring and smiling at you while you feel uncomfortable, that could be called cold. It depends on the whole face, because smiles add to the feelings.

Winter is a season to be cherished. Of course, I don't like it for the holidays or anything as stupid as that, but for the weather. The snowfalls, unique to this season only, the vapor made visible in the air, it's a beautiful scene. Then again, I'm the only one who likes it for that reason.

Too bad I'm born on Christmas.

Jerry Jonathan is happy today. You can see it in his aura. He is simply shining, and everyone knows it, too. I wonder why...

Today's school lunch: Processed and microwaved meat on *cough*fake*cough* bread. How charming. I take a bite, chew slowly, and swallow. Then I throw out the sandwich and eat the tater tots that came with it. Much better.

The other students are noisy and blatantly breaking school rules under teachers' noses. Let them, it's not my problem. Joe- I mean, Jonathan comes over and sits at my table. He's eating homemade soup. It's nice to know he has a family who cares.

We don't speak to each other, whatsoever.

Our seating chart was remade. Now, I am forced to sit between Jonathan and another boy, and by the way they talk to each other, the boy's presumably Jonathan's friend. I'll ignore them, but their voices are extremely loud.

Is life enjoyable? Or better yet, is it supposed to be? Because right now, I kinda want it all to end. Just for me, though. Everyone else is emotionally better off without me anyhow.

Please, if you're reading this, give me meaning. Something to sustain me, a reason for existing. However silly, however many, give them all to me!

I'm feeling paranoid and jittery. Today when I walked into the classroom, everyone gaped at me. I am covered head to toe in bruises. My foster family did this to me. I should've...should've put up an act, pretended to be nice and friendly. But it's too late. They've taken out their stress on me, and once done, they'll do it again. Jonathan tried to comfort me and silenced everyone, but I didn't show any recognition for it. Whoops.

I know you're reading this journal, Jonathan. And I know you're pitying me. SO STOP IT! I don't want it, don't need it. Leave me alone!

Hey, Jonathan. Is that really your answer? My purpose for living? None. My reason? To do things that make me happy, to do things that teach me lessons. My reason for living isn't needed, because life is a surprise, and I'm not quitting early just because I got in a tight spot. Eventually, it'll be balanced out.

Well, I did say to give any answer. Thank you. For your insight, for your support. I know you weren't pitying me, that it was genuine concern.

Dear Jonathan,

I am leaving on a trip today. Don't worry, it's not suicide. But, I am constricted in my current family, and I'd like to start anew. Although I'll attempt to be social, my philosophy and looks on the world won't change much. That's right, I'm moving. I'll come back one day. And when I come back, I promise to be filled with exciting stories to be told. I hope you stay here, because when I return, I'd like to meet you again. Of course, when I'm mature.

Yours truly,

That girl who sits in the back with the black hair in front of her face (You know who she is)