Saturday 11th December, 2010.
I hate my Mum. She does my head in. Apart from the fact that she ate my Dad, she never lets me do anything. It’s always “tidy your web”, “have you cleaned your fangs?” and “come home before six”. It’s not fair. My friends are allowed to stay up well late and I’ve got to come back for my tea. It’s always flies as well. I bloody hate flies. My mates get to eat from McDonalds and KFC, their cockroaches are well juicy, but not me, no, it’s always bloody flies. It’s not fair.
There was this time, yeah, when I saw Tracey down by the rose bush. She’s well fit. She’s got great legs. Well, the front six of them, anyway. The back two are a bit hairy – it’s like she’s never heard of a razor. Ha! Don’t tell her I said that, though, ‘cos she’ll kill me. No, seriously, she’ll actually kill me. She’s not the sort of girl you talk to when she’s hungry. Whenever I want to talk to her, I always bring her a little grub (Yeah, that’s a spider joke, you may not appreciate it). Anyway, yeah, I saw Tracey down the rose bush and she’s all, like, how’s it going, and I’m all, like, yeah, top and then she winked at me, with four eyes. So I reckon she likes me! I dunno, though. I think I’m a bit fat. It’s all those flies my Mum makes me finish. If Tracey doesn’t go out with me it’ll be all her fault. I hate her.
Anyway, today was OK. I just hung out. Out of a window, actually, doing nothing. Doing nothing rocks. It’s well boring, but it beats doing stuff. She’s bloody calling me now for dinner. Bitch. I can’t even write in peace. Oh Christ, now she’s accusing me of looking at porn on the web and playing with myself. She’s WELL embarrassing. Bet it’s bloody flies for dinner again. I’m sick of flies. It’s not fair! I didn’t ask to be hatched!