Friday 25 September

My name is Son Goten, and I suppose you're my new diary. Hi!

Wow, that was nerdy. Let's try this again.

My name is Son Goten, and this is my diary.

Still off. "Diary," that sounds so damn girly. Maybe journal would be better? Yes, "journal," that comes across as rather more dignified.

Third time's the charm. My name is Son Goten. Sit back and enjoy as I chronicle the strange and mysterious happenings of my ever-so-eventful life.


Perfect, just like my world-saving super genius of a brother. The one who got me this diary. Er, journal.

Okay, time for some backstory. Last week, I was over at Gohan's place for dinner, because Mom and Dad were fighting. AGAIN. And by fighting, I mean my mom was yelling at my dad while my dad just sat there and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, smiling and looking for all the world like a child who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. (Hell, for all I know, maybe my mom literally caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Sometimes I think he's more of a child than my brother's toddler).

I have no clue what triggered it, and frankly, I didn't want to stick around to find out. It was getting pretty heated—my mom was bringing up stuff that had happened DECADES ago, when my brother was still a little kid. I didn't catch the details, but I think it involved my dad getting Gohan a pet dinosaur, and my brother—being the big crybaby he was at the time—freaked the fuck out, which freaked out the dinosaur, which somehow resulted in half the house being destroyed.

I can't really be sure what she was saying. I sort of tune her out automatically when it gets like this. Some might call me rude. I say it's a perfectly reasonable defense mechanism, brought on by a childhood's worth of bleeding eardrums.

Years of experience have taught me that, when my mom gets like this, the argument is going to end in one of two ways. Either she's going to yell until she's blue in the face and hit my dad (and, if she's in a foul enough mood, me) on the head with that damn frying pan of hers, or she's going to yell until she's blue in the face and my dad calms her down with a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. I honestly don't know which one is worse. I mean, yeah, the frying pan hurts, but if my dad manages to calm her down it quickly dissolves into a disgustingly adorable snuggle fest.

At least I have it better than Trunks. If my training-partner-slash-best-friend-slash-boyfriend had a zeni for every time he's walked in on Bulma and Vegeta getting it on, his trust fund would have doubled by now. Don't get me wrong—Trunks isn't easily shocked, but these are his parents. Kami knows what I would do if I ever walked in on my parents. Especially if they were using whips. And chains. And lingerie. And looooads of whipped cream.

I'd...rather not say which one of them was wearing the negligee.

When Trunks told me that story, I thought he was exaggerating. He produced photographic evidence. I just asked why the fuck he would take pictures.

Trunks has issues.

I'm rambling. Back to last week. The point is, I knew I'd better get out of my house, and since Trunks was busy watching his baby sister, I ended up escaping to Gohan's place.

How he can stand living next door to our parents, I have no idea.

In any event, in between attempting to feed an uncooperative Pan and trying to get in a few bites of her own meal, Videl started asking me if I had given any thought to what I wanted to do with my life. And I had, and though I didn't really feel like talking about it, she kept pushing. My brother, Kami love him, tried to get her to back off, but let's be honest—the man is whipped.

So eventually I confessed that I was interested in journalism. Yes, journalism. I can't see myself becoming a professional martial artist (and to tell the truth, I'd feel bad about the unfair advantage I'd have, not being human and all), and I've never been particularly good at math or science. Which is weird in itself, when you think about it—between Gohan and Trunks, I've been surrounded by science geeks my entire life. I, on the other hand, have always been a bit more…observant than rational. Being paid to write about the world around me? Sounds like a dream job.

So what does Gohan do? He gets this bright, enthusiastic look in his eyes, pops into his study, and comes out bearing a black leather-bound book with gold-and-silver stitching along the cover. And he hands it to me, suggesting that I start journaling. Says something about how observing and writing about the events of my own life might be good practice.

My brother can be so fucking gay sometimes. And I'm the one who's actually sleeping with a guy.

In any event, I thought this was a stupid idea at first. But then I thought about it, and I realized that, one, my writing isn't anywhere near as sophisticated as it could be, and two, I'm going to have to include a writing sample when I start applying to universities next year. After about thirty seconds of awkward silence, I thanked my brother and set the journal aside, mostly to keep it from being splattered with the sautéed noodles Pan had decided to use to decorate the dining room.

That girl is so lucky she's cute. Otherwise, she'd have been crucified long ago.

Then I asked Gohan where he got this froofy-looking journal. Apparently he just had it lying around.

Typical. I would have asked about the ivy and vines and golden flowers that were stitched all over the damn thing, but I was suddenly interrupted by a handful of pan-fried noodles. Pan must have some incredible aim for a three-year-old, because there is just no explaining how she managed to land them right in my eyes.

I excused myself to go rinse the stinging soy sauce from my eyes while Videl started yelling at her giggling daughter. Gohan, wisely, didn't say anything.

Anyway, after a few days of debating with myself (by which I mean ranting all stream-of-consciousness-like at Trunks), I decided to give this journaling thing a try. Who knows? I might just learn something about myself.

…okay, maybe I am the gay one.

In any event, this promises to be quite the time-waster. Which wouldn't normally be a problem, except for the fact that I have a massive art project due in six weeks. Yeah, a month and a half sounds like a long time, but my perpetually spaced-out lunatic of an art teacher gave us the world's most open-ended assignment. The prompt is, I shit you not: "The places we come from, the places we're going." What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

My wonderful, understanding, sensitive boyfriend suggested I take this assignment quite literally. He thinks I should take a poster, draw myself coming out of the birth canal on one panel, and draw myself going down on him on the other. When I sputtered out a refusal, he oh-so-selflessly offered to let me go down on him for real, make a video recording, and use that as a model in case I was having trouble with the sketches. Provided, of course, that he gets a copy of the video.

So I did what any calm, rational, loving boyfriend would do. I punched him in the face.

Trunks asked if he really deserved that. I responded that he always deserves it.

I must be off now. I smell dinner, and it's calling my name. Or, more accurately, my mother is calling my name, and if I don't get down there in the next sixty seconds, all I'll be having for supper is a face full of cast-iron frying pan.

Dende above, the things I put up with.