Um . . . hi?

Okay, now that that's out of the way, I'm going to be as blunt as possible: this wasn't my idea. I had no intentions of ever writing in a journal much less actually owning one. My life's too practical and boring. A real yawn-fest. My name's Eevee and I come from Planet Snore! (That's sarcasm, by the way. Just another reason to hate journaling, one can never tell when you're being sarcastic. Not that anyone is going to read this, ever. In a million years).

But, wait, I know what you're thinking: if you express so much loathing for journaling then why are you doing it?

The answer is quite simply.

Three words. Five syllables all together.

My school counselor.

Yeah, that's right, but let's be honest here, people, who didn't see that coming? If I had told you that someone at school gave me the journal and fully expected me to write in it, how many of you would've guessed counselor?

The people who love butting into our lives, even when it's none of their damn business. Usually, they target the outcast. The broken people. Loners and losers. Freaks and geeks. You know who you are. Well, apparently, Mrs. Good-Intentions has, unfortunately for me, taken notice of my quiet personality and standoffish way with people. Walking into her office was like being on death row. Dead girl walking.

You know the feeling. Your stomach starts to churn. It's like your heart sunk to the bottom of your gut. Or a rock. Feelings of nausea hit and you want to throw up. You start to sweat, either your forehead or your palms. Or other places – for those champion sweaters. You just feel like you want to crawl under a rock or inside the jaws of a shark. Even that would be less painful than having to endure what lay behind that door.

You sit on the couch, completely stiff. Hands clasped in your lap. Eyes briefly bouncing from her face to anywhere else in the room (which is just one big strike against you). Awaiting your fate.

And the worst part is when she smiles. It's big and toothy, those pearly-whites even look like they have their own individual little smiles. She talks soft and gentle, like she's addressing a scared little animal. Her eyes are tender, yet sharp. She wants you to trust her. To open up. But, at the same time, she's trying to sneak inside your skull, pry open the little emotion vault inside your brain, and take a good long look.

Here's a little list of things counselors don't like:

1. When you don't make eye-contact (which I briefly pointed out already).

2. When you tell them nothing's wrong, because they always seem to think they know everything and if they think there's something wrong then there's something wrong.

3. When you ask them if you can leave (although, the bonus of that is that it makes their sugar-coated smile waver a bit).

4. When you don't even act like you're the least bit interested in fixing whatever problems you may have.

5. When you tell them they are no help whatsoever.

You know one of my favorite counselor quotes? This doesn't even have to come from a counselor. It can come from any adult, but it's a real kicker: 'I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.'

Uh, yeah, obviously, lady, but here's the thing . . . I don't want your help. Don't need your help. And will never come to you for help for as long as I am forced to go to school here. Capiche?

It's ironic really. Mrs. Hawthorne's the one who's making me do this, I just said I'll never tell her jack-squat and yet . . . I'm expressing myself more into this stupid thing than I ever would to her – or anyone else for that matter. The only real reason why I'm writing in it is because Hawthorne convinced my English teacher to make it part of my final grade.

I really hate her.

Basically, I dodged most of her attempts to "connect" with me. She's not my friend. My ally. My anything. She's just nosy-as-F and I don't care if she ends up reading this. Are you reading this, Mrs. Hawthorne? Mrs. 'I-Can't-Mind-My-Own-Business' Hawthorne? Are you offended? Because I definitely hope so.

You can't fix what isn't broken and newsflash: I'm not broken. What – do you think because I don't have a bobbing blonde ponytail or a cheery smile or a peppy attitude that I'm some kind of depressed loner sociopathic freak bent on either my own destruction or everyone else's? Although the latter does sound appealing, I currently don't have any plans on ending anyone, rest assure. If anyone should be forced to write out their feelings in a stupid journal, it should be the blonde, cheery, and peppy people. No one can be that freakin' happy.

My feelings for those kind of people are the same as for people who claim to be 'morning people'. I don't trust them. I don't trust anyone really and that, of course, served as simply another strike. My lack of enthusiasm for upcoming school events such as pep rallies and dances was one more and as they say in baseball: three strikes. You're out!

And, yeah, I was definitely out.