It's Not My Fault I Know Everything

Dear Dumb Diary,

It's not my fault I know everything.

Okay, I don't know where Timbuktu is, but I refuse to know that. Even if somebody told me, I would flush my brain like a Thought-Potty and wave good-bye to Timbuktu as it swirled down my brain hole.

I know everything that I want to know.

Sunday is the day that many of the world's great civilizations set aside to do homework. Isabella came over today so we could do homework together, which makes the time we waste not doing it go faster.

To mask the scent of homework, she brought over a bunch of magazines with quizzes and pictures of celebrities. We noticed how ugly people turn nice-looking by being famous — like there's this one boy on this one TV show, and if he wasn't on a TV show he would look like a girl what had been bitten horribly on the face by an ape, but since he's on TV, he looks like a girl that was bitten handsomely on the face by an angel.

Remember how I know everything? The reason this came up today is that these magazines feature lots of important quizzes and tests you can take, like ARE YOU A FASHION HIT OR FASHION TWIT? and JUST HOW MUCH NICENESS DO YOU HAVE? and ARE YOUR PARENTS ANNOYING OR SUPER-ANNOYING?

Magazine people are Geniuses and supercool because they can figure out your whole life with multiple-choice questions. I think they should make it so all Life's Questions are multiple choice.

Isabella kept getting mad at me because I always came out in the very top of the ratings in these quizzes. She kept coming out a little bit subhuman and said that we need better magazines with better tests. Then she tore them into a jillion pieces.

As I tried to put some of the pictures back together, I realized that the famous boy-girl actually looked better with most of his face torn off than he did when he was just famous.