June 1975

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 10:20:34 GMT

Rated PG-13 for general Sirius Potty Mouthage

~~15 June 1975~~ 16 June 1975

For life of me, I cannot sleep. Tis cru-ell.

It's Bloody Hell O'Clock in the Fucking Morning and I, Sirius Orion Black just Cannot Fucking Fall Alseep.

It has been ~~fifteen~~, make that SIXTEEN days since I dragged myself off the sodding train and I have yet to hear from at least ONE of my so-called mates. I really don't expect Peter to write, and that's just as well; his handwriting, for lack of a better word, resembles that of an underfed, undereducated (is that even a word? Must ask Moony, fucking walking talking anal-retentive dictionary-bastard he is) hyperactive minute-owl. James is off having the adolescent Quidditch player's wetdream fantasy week with Puddlemere, and Moony's roasting his shiny bum off some coast of France. That just leaves poor Padfoot to sit and rot at Bloody Fucking Hell O'Clock in the Morning in his festering Mother's house. Alone. With the Muttering Insane Boil Commonly Known as Kreacher.

Regulus doesn't count.

Some friends I've got.

Sent a letter of desperation to Moony. He best answer rather quickly, I dare say. He knows how well I've trained Aristotle. Best owl in England, NO, the entire spinning world, that owl is. To Prongs' house and back with reply in under three hours. And persistant as all Hell. If my threats of Muggle Rock Howlers won't get him to comply to my demands, that little hoot-owl will. Remus knows all too well: the bird BITES.

Supposedly I'm to go with Father tomorrow. Annual summer trip to Knockturn for some other Priceless Piece of Rubbish that's as old as Medusa's left nostril, and full of Dark Magic the World Knows Not. What a load of bollocks. Last year, it was some old ring that Reg practically wet himself over. Last I can remember, it ended up being stuffed into the bottom of one of Mum's drawers amidst her ragged old knickers. It shan't be seen or heard from again. Good Riddance, if you ask me.

Shit. Now I'm horrendously cold. This is just absolutely perfect. Bloody arrogant parents. Seeing that it's Bloody Hell O'Clock in the Morning, I may just have to sneak onto the roof. Supposedly it's warm outside, or so I'd imagine, seeing that it's the middle of June, and I should not be stuck inside freezing my arse off in the middle of June, doing nothing but writing letters that go unanswered and getting paler by the minute. I asked to take a walk to get some fresh air (to get away from the dank of the Most Ancient of Dust Bins) but I was met by the shrill shrieking wrath of my Mum.

"How dare you?! Go out and allow some filthy Muggle the pleasure of gazing upon your pristine well-bred face?! I won't hear of it!" Insert blood-curdling scream here, ad nauseum.

First off, one would think that she was raised by a herd of flesh-eating banshees, and secondly, well-bred my arse. S'not my fault I'm the product of her shagging her own cousin. I can't help that fact, nor the fact that ever since I put two and two together that I'm revolted even more by the thought that my parents share the same bed. Lines should be drawn somewhere, I don't rightly care who you're related to. It's just not on, and I still get chills down my spine thinking about "my place in society". Reg continues to eat it up. You wait and see. His luck, they'll have him betrothed to some distant troll of a cousin and he'll happily oblige. It's sickening.

Terrific. Now it's Bloody Fuck-Thirty, I'm freezing my arse off and I still can't sleep. Fucking Hell.

The Diary of Sirius Black

June 1975