Disclaimer: As much as I really, really want to, I don't own Death Note. Do you feel my pain? All credit goes to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.

Author's note: Yes, yes, I know I shouldn't be starting another multi-chapter fic, but I got this idea, and then it started to eat my brain, so I had to write it down. I don't think I'm normal.
I've rated this fic 'T' purely because of the language used. I'm also thinking that there might be some hints of Matt/Mello in here, just because. (:
Also, I know the title is naff, but, really, it's a diary. Written by Matt. It's not gonna be deep and profound.
But I hope that this will amuse someone somewhere. I also have the next chapter typed up, because I'm incredibly awesome like that. Please review~ I love reviews.

Also, I'd like to give a HUGE thanks to the insanely AWESOME Trey.R, who translated this fic into Russian! That's so cool! (: PM if you'd like the link.
Update 4th July 2014: This fic is now being translated into French, thanks to the absolutely amazing Jilano and Caela-chan! Head on over to Jilano's fanfiction page if you want to read this in French instead! (:

~Rainbow Fruit Loop.

~The Weird and Wonderful World of a Guy Named Matt
Chapter One

January 2nd 2006.

How in God's name do I start this fucking thing?

'Dear Diary'…? No, that makes me sound like a silly, whimpering girl with friend-issues. Hm.

'Hey, Diary!'…? No, that makes me sound like I'm excited to do this stupid project. And I'm not. Because it's stupid.

No greeting at all? A casual greeting? A note telling anyone who wants to read this to piss off? A nice, polite greeting to Roger?

Ah, I don't know. I haven't even really started yet, and I'm already confused. I think diaries are over-rated.

Well whatever. Yeah, this is me. Matt. Writing a diary. Although I think that I prefer the word 'journal'. But it's hard to believe, I know. Roger thought that giving all of us Wammy's kids a diary would help us to become… wait, what were his words?

I'll just ask Mello.

Oh, yes. Good thing Mello's memory isn't as dodgy as mine. Anyways, Rogers words were: "These diaries will help you to express your feelings." (It was really funny, though, 'cause Roger looked pointedly at Near when he said that. Emotionless bastard. It made Mello and I snigger.) "They will help you to tell the truth, and you will eventually trust your diary with your biggest secrets."

But then, the really creepy part of this 'assignment' is that he wants to read our diaries every few months to "make sure that we're sticking to it." Which, of course, most of us won't be. But I mean; what the fuck? Mello and I have this theory that Roger's actually a paedophile, which is why he works with a whole bunch of child geniuses. Genii? What's the plural for genius? Anyways, Roger tries to hide his paedophilia by saying that he hates kids… What. A. Loser.

Anyways, I've written way too much for one day. My arm's starting to ache. I don't think I've ever done so much writing in my life before. I'm in agony.

And I don't want to look like I'm keen for this assignment, or something stupid like that.

Because I'm not.

Really.

January 6th 2006.

Well, I wasn't going to write anymore, because I still hate writing in this journal, but I think that I should make an effort.

…Actually, that's a lie. Near's been writing almost essays in his, and Mello got all sulky and bitchy, just because it shows how much better Near is than him. Or something. And then Mello told me to write his for him; he doesn't think writing a diary is 'manly' enough for him. But I told him that I was too busy writing mine, so I couldn't do his. So, yeah.

Well, while I'm here, I may as well give you some information about me. It's enchantingly exciting, I swear.

Name: Matt. Or, rather, Mail Jeevas. Now that I've written my actual name, I have to hope that no one reads this, or else I might die somehow. Like, maybe in the future, there'll be this psychopathic mass murderer who can kill by simply knowing someone's name. But, then again, that does seem just a tad unlikely.

Sex: Yes, please. LOL. Are we allowed to use text speak in these diaries? I hope so. If not, then Roger's gonna murder me. LMAO. Surprises, surprises. But, no. My gender is what I believe you want. Wait for it… Wait for it… The suspense… Ooh, the suspense… I'm a guy. Could you tell? If so, then well done! Your deduction skills are fantastic. Your IQ must be high. But if not, then… yeah. You're obviously not a regular here at Wammy's.

Age: Almost, almost sixteen. I'm almost legal for… a whole bunch of stuff. Lucky me. I wonder what I'll get for my birthday? I hope that someone will remember. Unlike last year…

Birth date: February first. Yup. That makes me one of the oldest kids at Wammy's. Yay for me. Life's good. And sarcasm's even better.

Favourite food: Pizza. Mello would kill me for not saying chocolate. He's such a controlling bitch like that. Not that I'd tell him that, though, because I like my facial features where they are.

Favourite colour: Ice blue. Not like Mello's eyes, though, because that would be weird. And creepy. And stalkery. And just a little bit gay.

Current location: Under my duvet, on my bed, in Mello and I's shared room, in Wammy's House, in Winchester, in England, in the world, in the universe- you get the point, right? I'm not on Mars. Just remember that, and you'll be able to locate me. Eventually.

Desired Future Occupation: Not being 'the new L'. Because I'm a rebel like that. Alright. Back to the question asked. Does 'Professional Gamer' count as an occupation? Wow, imagine that. Getting paid to play video games all day. I'd be sitting on my arse (one of my hobbies), eating potato chips (ready salted flavour), drinking vanilla coke (my new favourite), playing games and GETTING PAID THOUSANDS. How awesome! Woooooow. I'm all excited now, and I don't even think that such a career exists. If I had to choose an actual career, though, I'd probably choose to be a professional hacker. Because I'm legal like that.

Best friend: Mello. Don't ask; even I have no idea why. But I guess there's something about that crazy bastard that makes me want to keep him around. I feel so proud, though, because I know his real name. No one else does. Don't think that I'm going to tell you, though. Cheeky.

Sexual Orientation: At this point in time, I have no idea. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm asexual. I guess it would make things easier in the future, with, you know, people. I'm not really a people person. Hm…
Ew, no! I've just had a very disturbing thought. Near is asexual. Near. Argh! I don't want to be asexual with Near!

I'm all hysterical now, so I think that I had better stop. See what this diary writing does to me?

January 13th 2006.

I'm back. Cue extravagant party celebrations and brightly coloured confetti. Although, really, I don't know what to say. Nothing exciting ever happens here at Wammy's.

Oh, no wait. I tell a lie. Something did happen today. Something extraordinary.

Ready for it? It's highly exciting.

We were given the choice of scrambled eggs, bagels OR pancakes for breakfast. Woah there, calm your excitement. We don't want things getting out of hand here. But, really. Three breakfast options? Do they WANT us to get obese? Then again, they probably weren't expecting us to eat all of the options.

Or, in Mello's case, four portions of each option.

How does he not get fat?

January 19th 2006.

Gosh, Mello's such a rebel. He almost got kicked out of Wammy's. Again.

Do you want to know why? No? I'll tell you anyway.

He was 'bored', so he sneaked into the kitchen and replaced all of the salt in the salt shakers with washing powder. Washing powder. As in, the white, powdery stuff that you put in with your washing. I'm only saying this in case you thought that 'washing powder' was the new street lingo for crack. It's not, by the way, and never will be, because that's naff.

But, really. Washing powder. It's not that bad, right?

Wrong. It all went horribly wrong when some random small kid had an allergic reaction to - what we thought was - his macaroni cheese. Oh, how wrong we were.

Macaroni cheese. We're always being served it. Probably because that's all the cooks know how to make. But I don't really like the stuff. It's all stringy, and cheesy, and it smells like vomit. Mello loves the stuff, but, then again, he's weird.

Anyways, I do have to say, though, even Mello was quite remorseful when we saw the kid getting rushed to the hospital in critical, near-death condition.

Mello's defence, however, was "It's his fault for being allergic to fucking washing powder of all things".

I quite agree.

January 24th 2006.

You know, now that I think about it, my life is actually quite interesting. I think that someone famous should come and make a documentary about us Wammy's kids. It'd have loads of viewers. We genii (yes, I've decided on 'genii' as the plural for genius) are very fascinating and entertaining people. And by 'we genii' I actually mean Mello and I.

Today Mello and I decided to start laughing and pointing whenever we saw Near's nose. No, not Near himself, but his nose. It sounds simple, but it was fucking hilarious. Every time he came up to us, we'd both stare at his nose and snigger.

It's amusing, though, because word soon got around, and soon everyone at Wammy's was laughing and pointing at Near's surprisingly small nose.

I think I died from laughing too hard. I know it's immature of me, but who really cares?

Near's now paranoid that there's something on his nose.

To say he's such a genius, he really doesn't understand a joke.

It really is great fun tormenting Near, as horrible as it sounds. I suggest that, if you're ever stuck in the same room as Near, and can't escape, torment him. It's more fun than it sounds, really.

January 29th 2006.

Not much happened today, but I thought I'd update my diary. Er, I mean journal. Journal. Journal.

I'm excited for my birthday, you know. It's in a few days, and I'm really hoping that Mello will remember. The bitch owes me a birthday present.

To make it easier for him, I've been leaving around helpful hints. Ranging from the oh-so-subtle to the not-so-subtle. That is, I've been leaving notes saying, "Not long now!" and "I'd really love this game for February the first" and, "Mels, if you fucking forget my birthday again – IT'S FEBRUARY THE FIRST – then I will eat you. And I know how against cannibalism you are."

You know. Helpful, polite hints like that.