Red

Listen, you little wiseacre: I'm smart; you're dumb; I'm big, you're little; I'm right, you're wrong, and there's nothing you can do about it.

My ex-stepfather found out about my tattoo today. This was bad. Bad. Not least because I calmly had said a few days before that I had my opinions about tattoos and he had his- incorrect: I do not understand the meaning of the word opinion, I, at 19 years old cannot have opinions, and if what I voice differs from what is said by his Highness himself, it is frankly, false.

My tattoo is a stupid idea, detracting from my main goal in life (which is to become a Professor, for all, including myself, who didn't know), and if it was a good idea and I wasn't ashamed of it I'd have it on my face. It is also no different from if I had got knocked up or hooked on crack.

I'm small, I mean nothing, there is never any reasoning behind decisions I take, everything I choose is out of stupid youthful lust for the unknown, and I am sorely mistaken if I ever believe that I am somewhat more intelligent or knowledgeable than Sir Disdain.

If I am spoken to like a five-year-old, I will respond accordingly. Please await your punishment, in the form of hats, superglue, and swapped hair lotions, Sire.