The Diary Nobody Asked For
Okay, first things first. This is NOT a diary. It's a JOURNAL. See, it says so right there on the cover, big fancy letters and everything: "Greg Heffley's Journal." My mom bought it for me at the drugstore, and when she handed it over with this hopeful little smile, I told her straight up that there's a difference between a journal and a diary, and if any of the kids at school ever caught me carrying around something that said "diary," my life would basically be over before lunch.
Mom just patted my head like I'd said something adorable and said, "Sure, sweetie. A journal." Then she winked, which somehow made it worse.
So let's get one thing straight before we go any further: I'm not writing my feelings down because I need to "process my emotions" or whatever garbage they fed us in that assembly last year about self-expression. I'm writing this because someday, when I'm rich and famous, people are going to want to know what it was like to be a genius trapped in the body of an average middle schooler. That's it. That's the whole reason. Nothing sappy going on here.
Anyway. Today's the first day of school, which means summer is officially dead, murdered in cold blood by the…
