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Diary of a Critic
Just about the daily things I think about which my friends either don't want to hear or just don't understand.
Second Gear
Urgh. Teenage boys. They're raucous, smelly, and think your arse is a positive pinch-fest. They hang around in their ridiculous mismatch groups, some four foot with the pitch of a mouse with a sore throat; others tower above you, their great gangly limbs threatening to clip you round the ear if you get to close. They leer at the teenage girls, grunting and grasping, dropping cheesy lines to tempt them behind the bike sheds.

Not that the girls are much better. The take the boys' 'compliments' with a hungry joy, batting their ridiculously thick mascara coated eyelashes. They direct various giggles and pouts the boys way, thick strawberry lip gloss literally dripping from their lips. They insist on covering themselves with the putrid scent of flowers and strawberries, which they seem to believe to be alluring.

This entry is the pinnacle of hypocrisy, seeing as I myself, am one of these despicable creatures; and I don't claim to be much different from the rest.

S'laters, Diary.

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