How vile, really.
Well, I have again been awarded a lovely comment spoken by Professor Snape himself that I ought to keep up with this entirely imbecilic journal project. One would think that my intelligent, lengthy conversations with Daphne via that dreadful commenting system is enough, but apparently Malcolm's writing "ha ha" in his journal is worth more than an intelligent remark over the forum that isn't considered an actual "entry."
However, I refuse to waste any of my time in detention, so here I am, wasting my time writing. Honestly.
I've skimmed the most recent entries by whoever, so I suppose that I'm as up to speed as I can possibly force myself to be about people who I don't give one whit about. I have my own problems to deal with, you know, what with my mother dying and Uncle being such a complete ape about it. He thinks that now that he's my guardian, that he can just take over my life and do what he will with it. I received a letter from the woman who keeps my room clear of dust while I'm gone so that I can return to a pleasant atmosphere, and she says that he has disposed of several blouses and skirts left at the estate, because he found them to be "inappropriate for a girl of my age". What is this? Disgusting. He has no eye for fashion whatsoever, the silly little man. I'm so angry that I can hardly write about it without wanting to throw something!
Valentine's Day, as usual, was utterly boring. I received so many flowers that there wasn't enough room in the trash to dispose of them all, and now I have only a few on my dresser. After hearing of my mother's horrible murder, that Beauxbatons boy made an effort to contact me again, but I'm obviously going to ignore his letter. I don't have time to read twelve pages regarding the magnificent way in which my eyes sparkle in the sun, you know. If I wanted bad poetry, I would have hired one of the many fools that call themselves my peers to write it for me.
Pansy did a lovely job with the post-game party, though I was quite disappointed to see the Hufflepuffs win. I had been rooting for Ravenclaw. I'd thought that the girl with the horrible roots would botch it for sure, but apparently they served in distracting the opposition's players enough that they were too disgusted to score. Oh, well.
I really have to select the proper shoes to wear tomorrow, so I must depart. What a pity.
-- Tracey Davis
However, I refuse to waste any of my time in detention, so here I am, wasting my time writing. Honestly.
I've skimmed the most recent entries by whoever, so I suppose that I'm as up to speed as I can possibly force myself to be about people who I don't give one whit about. I have my own problems to deal with, you know, what with my mother dying and Uncle being such a complete ape about it. He thinks that now that he's my guardian, that he can just take over my life and do what he will with it. I received a letter from the woman who keeps my room clear of dust while I'm gone so that I can return to a pleasant atmosphere, and she says that he has disposed of several blouses and skirts left at the estate, because he found them to be "inappropriate for a girl of my age". What is this? Disgusting. He has no eye for fashion whatsoever, the silly little man. I'm so angry that I can hardly write about it without wanting to throw something!
Valentine's Day, as usual, was utterly boring. I received so many flowers that there wasn't enough room in the trash to dispose of them all, and now I have only a few on my dresser. After hearing of my mother's horrible murder, that Beauxbatons boy made an effort to contact me again, but I'm obviously going to ignore his letter. I don't have time to read twelve pages regarding the magnificent way in which my eyes sparkle in the sun, you know. If I wanted bad poetry, I would have hired one of the many fools that call themselves my peers to write it for me.
Pansy did a lovely job with the post-game party, though I was quite disappointed to see the Hufflepuffs win. I had been rooting for Ravenclaw. I'd thought that the girl with the horrible roots would botch it for sure, but apparently they served in distracting the opposition's players enough that they were too disgusted to score. Oh, well.
I really have to select the proper shoes to wear tomorrow, so I must depart. What a pity.
-- Tracey Davis