The Diary of “That Rich Guy”

Yes, I am a boy, with a diary, and in my opinion, there is nothing to be ashamed of while being a boy that owns a diary. And for all of you critics out there that think I’m just one of those stuck up rich people that eat snails and eat with my pinkie out, your wrong. Trust me; I really just want to be an everyday kid. My name is Dylan Keaton Lawrence III, I’m in grade 9 and my current age is 15 years old. These, are my stories.

September 2, 2011

I woke up that morning happy to finally getting to go to a regular school instead of having to go to my previous private school called “The Saint Patrick Academy of the Arts”. Its your typical “rich” school. Mostly full of snoby brats who get whatever they want, whenever they want it. The students there were all the same, however, there was this one person that was the only one who I could relate to, his name was Martin. He was aisian, had bronze coluored hair and if you were to look directly into his eyes, it would feel as if his eyes were peircing into your soul. Not only that, but Martin is the most intelligent person that I’ve met. He’s sharp, yet smooth with his words, and with just one conversation with him, its as if he knows everthing about you. Honestly, Martin is like a brother to me, we’ve been going to the same school from grade one up untill now. I can say this from now, Martin and I are going to be in a brotherhood forever, maybe even working partners, but one way or another, Martin and I are going to be the the most epic men alive. That has been our dream since grade seven, however, my worry is that I’m not as smart, sharp or as cunning as Martin and I don’t want to be slowing him down.

As I walked down the stairs I heard the snapping and cracking sound of my mom cooking bacon and eggs. It was a rainy morning in Vaughn. I wasn’t actually born in Vaughn, I wasn’t even born in Canada. I was actually born in Britain, you see, my parents used to move around the world a lot because loved to travel and believe, me they had the money to do it. However, when I was born, they decided to settle in Canada. I know all of this because I listen to the conversations between my mom and her “girlfriends”. When I reached downstairs (when you have a huge house, you tend to have long stairs, I’ve suggested installing and elevator but my dad says its good to have a work out) my mom greeted me with a warm and welcoming face. “Morning Dills,” she said. “how’d you sleep?” “I slept, on my back.” I replied with a friendly smile. She chuckled as a response. My mom was used to my sarcastic talk, she could tell when I’m joking around or atcually meant it. I ate my breakfast, suited up, stepped outside, and began walking towards my new school, my new beginning.