Oliver Bad Luck
11 October Right, so you wanted a story? Okay. And it is all thanks to Mrs. Periwinkle, my English teacher. Mrs. Periwinkle, a woman whose enthusiasm for literature was matched only by her inability to grasp the concept of "fun," decided, in her infinite wisdom, that we, her captive audience of hormonal teenagers, needed to "express ourselves." Her grand solution? A diary. A diary! Can you imagine? It wasn't even one of those cool, suspiciously ancient looking journals that a proper detective might use. No, this was a perfectly innocent, painfully beige exercise book. It looked like it had been designed by a committee whose sole purpose was to drain all joy from the universe. It was as inspiring as a damp sock. As thrilling as watching paint dry. As useful as a chocolate teapot in a heatwave. "Oliver," Mrs. Periwinkle had chirped, her eyes gleaming with that terrifying optimism. "I want you to write in it every day. Your thoughts, your feelings, y...
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