Prologue

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AN: So.. I am actually really excited for all of you to read this. I am hoping to make it my completed entry for the Young Writers Prize, which is provided by Hot Key Writers.:) Wish me the best of luck and let me know what you guys think! <3 ~Lorki

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Prologue

Girls like to write “Dear Diary” at the beginning of nearly every entry in these stupid things, but I am not one for writing letters to a fictitious person who-so-happened to name him or herself after a bathroom problem.

I should not even be writing in such a ridiculous invention, something crafted to hold girls innermost secrets, loves and doodles of boys they want to have sex with.

Well, that sounded kind of wrong, didn't it?

Let me start this over, maybe things will make more sense to you.

My name is Collin Daze, I am a sixteen year old fugitive that stole six million dollars from the wealthiest bank in the world.

If you believed a single word of what I just said, then the word Gullible should be taped to your ass.

Like I said, my name name is Collin Daze, I really am sixteen years old, but I am not a fugitive or a badass of any kind.

Unless you want to count the time I was three years old and set my cat on fire? Yeah, mom wasn't too keen on the fact she had to bury a crispy, crunchy, Calico cat named Sparkles. At the time, it seemed pretty badass.

The moral of my life story is that I have never trusted anyone in my entire life. Yeah, most people have their one special person, a mother, a father, grandmother, someone that they always trust with everything they have.

I am probably the only person in the history of the world that has never felt anything but distrust towards every person around me.

My dad seems to think as if I was dropped on my head on my way into the world, while my mom thinks that maybe she has done something to make me this way.

Neither of them ever took into consideration that just maybe this was who I was supposed to be. Like Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

If you are reading this, never quote that I mentioned Lady Gaga in my diary or I will have to kill you. I may be a monster, but I prefer not to be labeled under Mama Gaga's fan base.

Once again, my parents figured something was wrong with me, so they thought it would be best to find me some friends. By friends, I mean a thirty-seven year old shrink with marriage issues, a million college degrees that no one but his mother would give a shit about, and of course, a stinky little Calico named PeeHatchDee, which sounded an awful lot like Pete Hates Me.

I wish my mother packed a lighter instead of a snack for me.

He was the one that thought it would be a grand idea to give me this thing called a diary, making a face when I remarked that it was a girl thing.

So now you hold in your hands, the one-of-a-kind diary that was spit in, sneezed on, stomped on, maybe even pissed on by the many teenagers at my school that thought it would be cool to share a small sample of their DNA in my life story.

In your hands, you hold the diary of a monster.

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