Dear Diary,

Today was most uneventful. I have nothing of substance to write because your face is a giant pineapple. I like pineapples. They kind of look friendly, only they sort of have a rough texture to them – something of which I’d have to say is one of the only negative aspects about pineapples.

Although don’t worry, I’m not trying to make some poetic metaphor about your face. My thoughts on pineapples are totally unrelated to the way your face looks, smells and feels. Your face may sound like pineapples though…

…But enough about your face and pineapples, because that’s ridiculous – unlike the following:

So I was just at the shop and saw a man. I say a man, more like a boy. I say a boy, more like a hideous monstrosity engineered though millennia of inbreeding, who happens to be universal champion at bobbing for surgical scalpels in a corroded steel bucket filled with sulphuric acid and infested with man-eating piranha fish. How do these man-eating piranha fish manage to survive in such an environment you say? Well, to put it simply, they are ultra-mutants. Mutants so persistent to survive, they have adapted to their immediate surroundings. Of course, these ultra-mutant piranha fish do not occur in nature, no. They were genetically grown, given supplements and steroids, amongst many other drugs by an eccentric and crazed scientist somewhere in the eastern hemisphere of this very world. I won’t be divulging any further information about said scientist because he would probably prefer to remain in anonymity, working and scheming from within the shadows, unbeknownst by mainstream society – plus if I did bang on about him any more, I’d be further straying from the point that I saw this man at the shop just a while ago. I say a man, more like a boy. Well, I say a boy, more like… Never mind. In summary, all I pretty much wanted to say was that he was fucking ugly.

Hello, I am a new paragraph that has become self-aware. That is all.

So anyway, I just briskly jogged across the road because I wanted to get back home as quickly as possible before he went on a crazed frenzy of inbred-induced-blood-rampage-and-rape-fest after realising that he had no chance of copulating with anyone other than his mongoloid sister. What bugs me is when people have preconceived notions about how it’s wrong to cross the road when the little man is red on the traffic light. I just don’t see the point. If you see that everything is in check, just cross the road. There’s no need to wait around for ages. I mean, I had just crossed the road when the lights indicated not to and I was absolutely fine. Sure, I was hit by a car, caused a twelve car pileup, blew up a children’s hospital and gave an old man 7 consecutive heart attacks in the space of seven minutes, of which all but two he survived. I say two, because he was technically dead for a good four minutes before he was resuscitated by a paramedic... Of course, then afterwards the paramedic had been decapitated by a motorbike failing to avoid the debris caused by the smouldering mound of dead children blockading the crossroads, but the point is, I am fine and got up unharmed. So you might argue with me by saying that I had obviously put myself into irrefutable danger because I had been hit by this car. Well let me correct you. If you use me as a study in order to prove one way or the other that crossing the road whilst the little man is red is either safe or dangerous, you will find that statistically, out of the many, many times I had previously crossed the road in the same situation, I have always reached the other side of the road unharmed. Even if you include the last occurrence in the equation, I still remained safe and unharmed. Time is money, cross that road and let no mere road safety regulation get in your way - Especially if there’s a sexually repressed and inbred individual just a few feet away from you.