Death to whoever peeks in this diary.May they burn in the firesof doom forever...or at leastfor a little while. January 14 Guys aren't allowed to keep diaries. Just girls. You know, Barbie-pink ones with fluffy red hearts. My diary is blue. To make it extra tough, I drew a scary skull and crossbones on the cover.First I thought I'd draw a brain, you know, instead of a girlie heart. But it just looked like six hot dogs stuck together. So I drew a skull and crossbones instead.My name is a secret. I have the ugliest name in the world. It starts with an N and ends with a D. If you put an R before the D, it spellsnerd. Nerdrhymes withturd.Luckily I have a code name.Treb.When I write in my diary, I write Treb instead of my real name. Why can't people pick their own names? Then I'd name myself Sven or Ingvar or some other cool Viking name. Rambo wouldn't be so bad. Or Mister Vladinsky. Mr. Treb Vladinsky.Our teacher says we have to read lots of books. She says books will make us intelligent. Wendy is the intelligentest one in our class. She's read about 9,227 books. No paperbacks.These are the books I've read: The Far Side GalleryGreen Eggs and HamCowboy-Kurt Cowboy-Kurtdoesn't really count. I wrote it myself. It's about a cowboy named Kurt.Every week our teacher makes us borrow books from the library. I just try to find the ones with the coolest covers. I never read them. But we have to borrowsomething,you know.One time I picked up something from the wrong section. I thought I was done for. It was terrible.Just as I was about to return my books, my teacher walked by. She stopped and looked at the titles."Treb!Do you read books likethat?"she asked and pointed at a blue book.It was by a Dr. Ruth somebody.It must have been a pretty scary book. My teacher turned all red.I had to do some quick thinking. I thought the book might be about how to get rid of headaches and backaches and stuff. So I said:"I borrowed it for Dad. He's always wanted to learn how to do stuff like that."My teacher gasped and stared at me.The next day I found out what the book was really about. But I'm ABSOLUTELY NOT going to write it here!I still haven't revealed how old I am. It's half-secret. But I'm not fifty-three or twenty-eight. I'm twenty years old. Almost. You just take away half of twenty and add one. Now you know, diary.Spring semester has started. We're almost the biggest kids in the school. We get to act tough whenever we want to. Except when the seventh graders are out on the playground with us. Then we let them act tough.Nugget smoked a cigarette during Christmas vacation. He told us about it in P.E."Now I'm not a little kid anymore," he whispered to me."Me neither," I whispered in my best Arnold Schwartzenegger voice. I said I'd actually been smoking quite a bit myself. At least seventy-six or so a day.That shut Nugget up.I've never smoked. Not even a filter. Except once when I was two I ate a cigarette. But I didn't want to say anything about that.There are twenty-five kids in my class. I'm the third oldest. After Renee and Nugget. Nugget is going to turn twelve next week. Then he's going to try chewing tobacco. Nugget's real name is Nicholas. But I wouldn't recommend calling him that out loud, unless you're a teacher. If you do, you get a knuckle sandwich. You might get one anyway, even though you sayNuggetthe whole time. Nugget isn't particularly nice. But Nugget is the most important guy in our class. He's strongest, next oldest, he's smoked, he's most popular with the girls, and his dad has a red convertible Corvette.My dad has an Opel that honks when you turn left. His name is Fred. I mean, not the Opel, but my dad. Dad is an optician. He sells glasses to four-eyed people.Uh-oh, somebody's kn