Disclaimer: I ain't claimin' nuthin', nuh-uh!
Introduction: I'm feeling experimental. Ladies? Anyone? No? Okay. So, I'm not only writing the fictitious non-diary of a girl – which, I reckon, is quite experimental enough on its own account –, but I'm also uploading it after having written no more than what you will be able to read here. I literally just drummed this into my keyboard last night while watching a game of hoops (is there anyone outside Miami who likes the Heat?), and while I have a multitude of incoherent ideas about where I could see this going, I wouldn't exactly claim that I have much of a concrete plan. But in this case, that's precisely how it's meant to be.
And so, for the very first time, I'm sharing a story (or rather: the possibility of a story) with you guys out there before I have finished it. I don't yet know what will come of it, but I just feel like playing around a bit, which is something fanfiction is far too convenient for to pass up the opportunity. So, let me know what you think and if you would be interested at all in a continuation of whatever it is I started here.
Also: I always use Jane as Hermione's middle name instead of the now canonical Jean. Back in the day, before Miss Rowling changed her mind, that's just what was commonly used in fanfiction and it stuck with me. Changing her name because Umbridge's middle name was Jane is just silly. You know, sometimes people share the same name – even nice and not so nice ones. It's a strange world.
Emotionally Disturbed Rationality
EDRD – An Introduction
3 September 2005
My name is Hermione Jane Granger, soon to be sixteen years of age and officially attending my fifth year at the Hogwarts School of Bitchcraft and Bigotry, and I suffer from an emotionally disturbed rationality. Hence the title of this lovely, leather-bound book I bought in the most adorable little Elysium for the reading and writing kind in Florence, Italy, back in August during summer break. A book, mind you, that I sincerely hope will never be found and read by anyone but me, for reasons that I am certain will become quite obvious as soon as I come to whatever point I might or might not have intended this book for.
I can assure you that I have taken every precaution within the confines of my abilities to make sure this book will be the second best protected manuscript in Hogwarts after Professor Dumbledore's personal notes, which I feel is only adequate given the high probability that this will also be the second most embarrassing manuscript in Hogwarts after Professor Snape's diary. Oh my, now I'll really have to make sure this doesn't get into the wrong hands. Then again, I have the strong suspicion that might already be the case. What's gotten into me?
It's funny, though, isn't it? If I were still living as a Muggle right now, I'd probably just put all of this on one of those blogs and throw it right out there into the Internet for everyone to look at. Wouldn't that be silly? Look at me, look at me, I'm so interesting! Lucky for me, my current whereabouts couldn't be farther away from the Muggle world, and with the disturbing realm of the Internet as far away as humanly possible, I can do this the way it is supposed to be done: in private. Without exhibition; without narcissism in disguise; without receiving stupid comments on my personal affairs from the moron that is the average Internet user.
So, who am I talking to, you ask, and did I just, by any chance, call you a moron? That's a good question, I'll give you that. Could you possibly be one of the rare descendants of the smart lineage of our beloved species? Maybe one of the 90% who believe they are of above average intelligence? Wait, am I still talking to myself? No, of course I'm not. I'm talking to you, whoever you are. Now, you might just be my inner alter ego with whom I have chosen to converse for the purposes of these personal accounts of mine; after all, I need someone to talk to. Doesn't everybody? But you could also be something else; something quite fancy, I dare say. You, my dear non-existent listener, could be… an idea.
Yes, you are the idea of someone, and not just anyone. In fact, you are the idea of everyone. Everyone who would listen to me. Everyone who would understand. Everyone who would see a point in the existence of these ramblings. So I'm not talking to nobody or merely myself, I am talking to all of you; to the idea of all of you. Does that make sense or am I just going nuts, and does the one necessarily exclude the other?
Seriously though, I've got issues. Don't we all, you say, and rightly so. I'm not going to argue that. I do, however, presume to have somewhat uncommon issues, for I am in fact – simply put – insane. Now, if insanity were common, how much of its definition would really remain intact, and who would still care? Inevitably the smaller part of the world's exponentially increasing human population. Isn't the perception of insanity inextricably linked with the ratio in which it occurs? Its definition, it seems to me, is dependent on a contrasting point of reference. No person labeled as insane would ever authentically call themselves insane, which, the sane declare, is a symptom of their insanity (which, in turn, makes the sane look pretty suspicious, for they aren't calling themselves insane either). Or to quote Japanese movie director and cinema icon Akira Kurosawa: "In a mad world, only the mad are sane."
You'll obviously have noticed how I just contradicted myself; insofar as I cannot be insane by definition while still being capable of diagnosing myself with insanity (the world of mental illnesses truly is even more curious than the world of magic). So, okay: guilty as charged. I guess I'm not insane after all. But you know how the saying goes: don't count your dragons before they're hatched.
As I made clear right at the outset, though, I have – necessity begets ingenuity – found a label of my own for my condition. And that's even more fun than going through the countless checklists to find out how many psychiatric labels you qualify for.
And so I hereby solemnly declare: I exclusively suffer from Emotionally Disturbed Rationality Disorder, or EDRD in short (maybe someday there'll be a rock band of that name). I am officially the first specimen to be thus diagnosed, and I will herein chronicle my analysis of my condition over the course of the year. Now you might ask something along the lines of "What the heck is that crazy witch talking about?" and you would be right to do so. I will, in due time, elaborate further on my self-diagnosis, but for now, within the framework of this preface, let me illustrate the reasoning behind my chosen label for my condition with the juxtaposition of two simple facts:
1) I am not very fond of teenagers. I don't particularly like having to be one of them even though I'm obviously not one of them. I strongly dislike hormones. They are silly little things that solely serve to get on my nerves (which are a different kind of silly little things), and are pretty much all that teenagers consist of. I hate how they all start acting crazy at some point for no apparent reason. I just have to look at them and their obviously insane behavior and I instantly know why I cannot actually be crazy myself, because I am not like them. One day, they are all perfectly normal children with dreams, aims and ambitions, and the next day they are suddenly reduced to brainless transportation vessels for reproductive organs, generally referred to as teenagers. Now boys are all ogling all the damn time and girls are all giggling all the damn time; two phenomena I don't even want to begin to see a correlation between. Instead of homework, there's gossip at every corner. Everybody seems to have some obscure, ridiculous dirty secret all of a sudden, which everyone else seems to know about, kind of defeating the purpose if there ever was one to begin with. Their already limited vocabulary is apparently further reduced to terms such as kissing, snuggling, snogging, fondling, petting and shagging with random names of people, places and body parts thrown in between, and they constantly talk about some kind of bases, though I'm pretty sure bases are no part of Quidditch. I simply hate it all. It's a circus of idiocy. It's primitive. It's vulgar. It is, quite simply, beneath any truly rational being. I hate, hate, hate everything about it.
2) I'm in love with my best friend.
Author's Note: I just realized - while reading a book that has nothing to do with this at all - that I've made the greatest blunder since Einstein's cosmological constant. Hermione in her fifth year at Hogwarts? September 1995, of course. Too bad I had already written the whole thing – jokes about the Internet and blogs included – before thinking about when it would take place! While Internet and World Wide Web were certainly around at the time (the Mosaic-based Internet Explorer 1.0 was released in August 1995), the term "blog" wasn't even coined until 1999. One of the most prominent "blogs" in the early days went online in 1997 when it was still called a "zine". It was "The Misanthropic Bitch", and while I always imagined Hermione to be headstrong and non-conformist, I wouldn't exactly associate her with something that crass. So in case you wondered: no, Hermione isn't supposed to be The Misanthropic Bitch.
Now, if only I could decide if I should a) take out the anachronistic passages (kinda like 'em), b) change the timeframe and therewith destroy the canonical space-time continuum, or c) just leave it the way it is, because the world couldn't care less.
Author's Note 2: I have pushed the timeline 10 years ahead relative to canon for now, to (mostly) avoid anachronisms. I don't yet know if the dates will be of any relevance to the story itself, but not only do they appropriately accompany the (non-)diary style, they also could be of implicit meaning later on; telling the reader how much time has passed between two entries, or if it's some kind of special date and whatnot. So for now, they are staying put.