Insert catchy title here...

Her tiny frame was swimming in a worn black duffel coat. Her blindingly pale legs were partly concealed by grey woollen thigh high socks. They looked itchy and unnatural next to her ghost-like skin.
She had one of those full fringes that I ruthlessly ridiculed. It was thick, something to hide behind.

When she sat down with her trendy chums she faded into the scenery. Just another funky trendsetter with a geometric fringe and a demeanour that conveyed pure unhappiness.
As a team they sat behind their ancient literature, whispering about vegan diets and eccentric hair colours, and they shot you looks of utter disgust.
If you weren't wearing lace up shoes, vintage band shirts or mustard beanies you were frowned upon, you were the lowest form of fashion conformism.

Dear Kitty -

When I was little my dad told me that I should always start off by writing 'Dear Kitty'.
Not with everything of course.
I don't address my abusive letters to the Herald Sun (and its circus of a writing team) to an illusive 'Kitty' character.
No, no, only my diary entries.
Thanks for the handy writing tip father bear.

Futile information aside, I apologise to anyone who became disheartened with the cease in writing from this web page. There is no real excuse for my lapse in dedication and I do not have the strength to make up a story, including tiny teddies and safety pins, in order to defend my absence.

I am now at a crossroads.
I don't know whether to tempt your intellectual palates with a tale of fact or fiction...

The factual option would include an enraged Jayo, abusing the VCAA and their disgusting standards of 'what makes someone sick enough to deserve Special Provision in VCE'.
I have already drafted a letter to the bastards expressing my disappointment with the negative response given to me (as a studying year twelve student) and other legitimately struggling students.
According to the VCAA, my application was dismissed because;
a) My doctor was lying and there was nothing wrong with me (deeming me a spectacular fraud).
b) I was eating regularly and, at times, healthily (illustrating that because I wasn't anorexic, I didn't deserve any assistance).
AND
c) I was over 145cm tall but under 60kg and my hair was in between the shades of blonde and light-to-chestnut brown.

The final point is rubbish. I am distressingly shorter than 145cm.
And it seems that without waiting for a response I have begun a factual (and possibly biased) rant. I apologise.

To please you all I will now begin a fictional story to post over the weekend.
Put the kettle on.
Well not yet, you have nothing to read yet.
Put the kettle on soon.
Tomorrow.
Put the kettle on tomorrow.

Jayo.

I'm back.

But I doubt anyone is reading this anymore.