Confessions of a Professional Douchebag

Uh, um, mic. check one-two. Hey, you all know me, right? The guy who cheats on a test, the guy who talks shit and brags about all the women he dates while he actually is a total virgin? The professional douchebag? Well apparentely, he wrote a book.

You know, it isn't easy confessing all of these things that will be written down. Like, you know, I actually really want to wear a belt so that my fucking pants don't slide down my ass and past my thighs. And all the crap I spew about getting girls into my pants? I make that up on the spot and get my stories all confused each time I tell a new one. And I'm not from the "hood". I'm just a white seventeen year old kid from a middle class neighborhood who gets forced to eat veggies by his mom. Not so "ghetto" now, right?

Well, now that you're sitting in your rooms or wherever you are, shocked as hell that someone would admit that they're a total douche, you may be wondering, what am I doing writing a book? Well, I guess I'll have to explain a little deeper. I'm not really writing a book, you feel me? It's worse. Much worse. This is a journal. My mom keeps saying it's a diary but fuck no. If there's even a little bit of dignity left in me I'll call this embarrassment a journal. At least I'm still doing this bullshit. Happy, mom?

But Jared, if this is a dia-I mean journal, why am I reading it right now? Shouldn't a journal be private?

Nope. This is a public journal for expressing my angsty emotions which gets published on my therapist's group blog for other troubled teens like me. In her words, that is. Mrs. Watkins, the plump little middle-aged lady who my mom pays to look at me with teary eyes and nod her head every time I tell her I burnt my grilled cheese that morning. By now you must be getting Holden Caulfield vibes. Yes, I know who he is. And yes, you should feel ashamed if you don't know who he is.

Why am I seeing a therapist? It's a long story that I don't really feel like explaining, but it involves long arguments with my mom about my fashion choices, self-esteem, and a particularly nasty incident where Jordan fell out of my closet in a pair of boxers. You should all be able to see where this is going. And no, I'm not gay. I see you creepy fangirls crouching by your screens. Back off slowly, before I'm forced to bring out the holy water.

So, uh, yeah, I'm so off track I don't even remember where I was going with this. All I know is that once someone from my school accidentally finds my "blog" everyone and their mom will see my journal. So that's why I'm addressing this journal to all of you guys. Spare me the pity and pretend you never found out how wimpy I really am. Welcome to my life, the life of a professional white-boy douchebag. Well, fuck.