Thursday, September 15th, 2005 Birmingham, My flat – Creative Writing

Thursday, September 15th, 2005 Birmingham, My flat – Creative Writing
Well! I finally have some time to write here again! At first, I have to confess that I’m a very lazy man. I’m not one of those persons who are working all day, and

trying to be useful to our society. I just try to live my life calmly, doing exactly the things I must do (never more) and trying to sleep the biggest number of hours I can. I just keep maintaining a diary because when I’ll be older, it will be funny to look at my stupid youth thoughts.

Since when I got up this morning, I could see clearly that today was going to be a horrible day. I even could say that my brain has been stopped from yesterday night until now. To start the day, I arrived ten minutes late to school, and I had to endure my French teacher’s tactless questions like “Why are you late today? You don’t look very well! What’s the matter with you?” But…what to answer to all this? I was torn between telling him the truth, so that my only problem today was that my brain didn’t want to get up, or telling him an other truth which was that I couldn’t stand him, that he was the most tiresome person I’ve ever known, and that I thought his lessons were just rubbish… so I let my sleepy brain decide, and I just said “my problem is that I must listen to you every morning, sir, saying stupid things that doesn’t really interest me”. There was not the least reason to say this to my teacher, but I’m not actually a good lyre, so I think it was the best option. The fact is that the man got quite angry and I was punished: I had to write an essay about what my French teacher called “a day of horror”, (even though I assume he didn’t know he was giving me that day).

As you can see, this essay could be done quite easily. In this precise moment, when I finish writing these lines in my personal diary, I see that my essay is finished. Following my lazy way of living life, I’ve done two things at the same time: I have written one page in my diary, and at the same time I wrote my essay. When my French teacher will read this, he might punish me again, but at least, now he knows that I hate the French literature.

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