If you're reading this;

1. CLOSE MY JORNAL YOU SNOOPY LITTLE NOSEY BUSY BODY! MY ANGSTY TEENAGE GIRL JOURNAL IS NONE OF YOUR BUSNINESS!

2. 'cause you think you might be a troubled kid riddled with dyslexia, ADHD, anxiety and who knows what else... my advice is: close this journal right now.

I ain't gonna help you! Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about how much of a special GIFTED kid you are, and try to lead a normal life.

I get it. I've been told I'm gifted, or a hand full, or I lack motivation or need a proper outlet for my behavior. I've been told I need to see a therapist, or some psych doctors... I've been told all the things about why I'm a horrible troublesome kid. The only one who doesn't say that and believes me is dad.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. Haha just kidding. Don't. It's my journal. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened. I could curl your toes with the horrible things that have happened to me in my almost 15 years of life, or the terrible things I've been told by teachers and doctors. But if you recognize yourself in these pages- if you feel something stirring inside- stop reading immediately. You might be one of us- a troubled kid with a label and a file sky high. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you- all the horrible nasty adults who just want to make your life a living hell. Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is Eleanor Grace Blofis.

I'm fourteen years old. Until a few months ago, I was at yet another private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. And now? You guessed it, another boarding school for troubled kids. This is my third school in two years. (No idea how dad keeps finding them!)

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that. Yep. Absolutely.

I had been switching schools at least once a year. Dad tries, he does. I tried, I really did! But trouble always finds me. The older I get the worse it becomes! I slowly started to stop avoiding it, instead I started embracing it. Now I'm at yet another school.

It's hard constantly moving schools. I never make friends. They don't like when I zone out, or when I ramble or when I'm me... Art class is usually alright. The teacher here is cool. He's younger and thinks my art is amazing.

Most people look at it and look at me like I need help. I don't really fit into what people expect, so it throws them for a loop. Art is my thing; paining, drawing...

I could start at any point in my miserable life to prove how sucky it can be, but things really started going bad a few months ago, when I was kicked out of my last school for spray paining sunflowers on the back wall when I was supposed to be in detention. I was caught by the Police at 2 in the afternoon. Dad had to come pick me up. He wasn't impressed I was in hand cuffs in the back of a cop car. But it's not like I was spray painting swears or gross things. I was adding some sunshine into the dark alleys.

Another weird thing I like ELA. I love writing, but I'm dyslexic so it makes writing and reading hard. Teachers don't seem to understand that, I was also diagnosed with ADHD, I can sit still, but my mind races is so many directions I always have a blank look or a glazed far away look. I try my best.

My math teacher is the worst. Look, I didn't ask for any of this! Uh! What an awful day! Another detention from my math teacher. I swear she's like some monster reincarnated as a human! She's horrible. I swear she picked me from the twenty something kids in class and went yep that's the one I'm going to pick on. I can't be around her for long. It's like she sucks all the sun and happiness from the room. Even as she walks down the hall darkness follows her.

No one believes me. My dad tries. He does. And it sucks disappointing him, which happens more then I want. He's a cool guy. A teacher at a high ranking school for the privileged. He loves rock and roll, and the harder stuff. He actually encourages my painting- except on public property. Dads cool.

My mom died during childbirth, some complications even the doctors couldn't fix. It's been me and dad my whole life. She had been a singer apparently; a beautiful voice I never inherited, I can carry a tune, but no where near as good as her. I've heard some of her recordings...

I could continue complaining about my miserable angsty teenage life, but our grade nine class is taking a field trip to Manhattan- twenty-eight mental-case kids and three teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff. And I have some homework to do before we head out. So peace out.