Dear Diary,
It is now 1am. All the over kids in Ms Gruwell's class are probably sleeping by now. But no... Not me. I’m on the floor at an old friends house. I can’t sleep. I can hear people arguing upstairs: shouting, stampeding and screaming loud sounds like a herd of elephants. I’m not sure if his parents or other people living in this house are able to her them, but I sure can. Truly, I can’t complain; this isn’t my house, I have nowhere else to go; my mother doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. This is just about the best I can get with a roof over my head; if its not this, then I’m sleeping at a bus shelter all night or in an alleyway or in a house full of drug addicts and alcoholics. And as for my father, I don’t know much about him except that he died in a street racing accident on motorway 6 one night. I was only a kid back when it happened. I don’t remember being at his funeral or meeting any of his side of the family; maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t remember or maybe I wasn’t at the funeral in the first place and didn’t meet any of his family to remember them. On the streets, all the men said my father was a ladies man who always made people happy. However, momma never had anything to say about him; she always just changed the subject. You see, life’s just been hell. It all went downhill from the day Clive accidently shot himself. Sometimes I can’t help but think: what if he accidently shot me instead? Would life have been better for both of us that way? All I want is a way out of this mess. I want to be able to go to bed at night wearing real pyjamas, not the clothes I wore yesterday and the day before. I want to be able to come home and see my mum in the kitchen cooking dinner: spaghetti and meatballs... mmm, my favourite. I want to go to sleep, wake up in the morning, then have a nice clean shower without feeling afraid to use someone else’s soap. Then eat breakfast, pack my bags and make my way to school with a smile on my face....