Oh, hoorah. A diary. What a thoughtful birthday present. Yeah, like I want to write about myself all day. It takes too long. It's more fun to talk. Then again, you have to find someone to talk to. This book is forced to be written in by me, whether it likes it or not.
Does that make me a book rapist?
I do hope not. It's such a foul business. Then again, there's only forced writing. It's not exactly the same as real rape...
I'm going to change the subject now, I'm digging a hole into self-delusion.
So, er, yeah. What do you want to know? You're a book. Books don't know anything. But they're full of knowledge. Creepy.
Well I'm Edith, anyway. Edith Birch. Ravenclaw. Fifth year. Muggleborn. I like arithmancy. I don't have a boyfriend. Haven't ever had one. Probably won't ever have one. Don't really care.
You?
Oh, books don't have social status. How exciting. Although I would have thought a big old volume would be higher up the social ladder than a skinny little paperback for kids, eh?
Nevermind.
But anyway, I keep diverging off the point.
I'm stuck with this diary thing because my mum gave it to me as a birthday present. and it's May. My birthday was in March.
Thanks, mum.
Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth. This might be good for me. Unless someone reads it. Then again, Nobody knows me well enough to care. I'm just the fat girl with an attitude problem. Hoorah.
Ugh, more self pity. I need something to keep me busy. Still, I've met some nice people recently. Some kid in the library who likes dragons, and a grungy type from seventh year. Otherwise it's pretty boring though. Not many good first impressions are made by me, strangely enough.
Ah well, no use crying over spilt milk. I like wandlore, you know. The whole subject, I mean. If I wasn't so sure on getting a job at gringotts, I'd love to be a wandmaker. But it's hard work and lonely.
And who knows, at Gringotts I might meet a goblin and have ugly goblin babies.
Ew, that's just too gross to even fathom. I'm going to bed.
See ya, crap diary.