Well, well, well, what do we have here? The first entry into the riveting saga of my existence. Buckle up, fuckers, you're in for a wild ride. I guess introductions are in order. Name's Zachary Green, but you can call me the Green Teen. Yeah, I know, sounds like something out of a bad comic book. But hey, if the tights fit... So, who am I? Just your average teenage rebel with a penchant for turning green and causing chaos wherever I go. Oh, and did I mention I can transform into a towering mass of muscle at will? Yeah, beat that, Peter Parker. Living in the cesspool of chaos known as Los Angeles, where dreams go to die and punks like me thrive. Mom's a religious nut who thinks I'm her little angel. Little does she know, her angel's more like a fallen demon with a taste for heavy metal and piercings. Friends? Got 'em. Enemies? Probably got those too, but who's counting? Kate's my punk-rock-loving girlfriend, and together we're the Bonnie and Clyde of teenage rebellion. Grace is the voice of reason in this madhouse, but even she can't stop me from drumming up a storm in the attic. Oh, did I mention my love for heavy metal? Yeah, it's like therapy for the soul. Ambush, Immortal Animals, Slug, Banshee, Dust of Unity – they're my lifeline in this sea of conformity. So, world, prepare yourselves for the onslaught of Zachary Green. Green by name, green by nature, and meaner than a junkyard dog with a chip on his shoulder. Until next time, diary, keep the secrets safe and the chaos coming. Zachary Green, out.
Donald Green. Father. Preacher. Phantom of my past. It's funny how the mere mention of his name can stir up a whirlwind of emotions inside me. Anger, resentment, longing... Yeah, even tears, if you can believe it. Me, Zachary Green, shedding tears like some melodramatic fool. Dad left when Grace and I were knee-high to a grasshopper. Packed his bags, said he had a calling from the Big Man Upstairs, and off he went to New York City to start his megachurch with his buddy. Left Mom to pick up the pieces, as always. He was a strict disciplinarian, that's for damn sure. I remember the endless lectures, the cruel punishments. Locking me in my room until I calmed down was his go-to move. And let's not forget the good old days when I was a brat, throwing temper tantrums left and right, bullying Grace every chance I got. But Mom... Mom was the real hero in this messed-up story. With her big, black robe and soothing words, she'd wrap me up tight until the storm inside me passed. She was my anchor in a sea of chaos, the only one who could calm the raging beast within. I both love and despise Dad. Love him for giving me life, despise him for leaving us behind. Love him for his passion, despise him for his cruelty. Love him for being my father, despise him for being a stranger. Sometimes, I wonder if he ever thinks about us. If he regrets leaving, if he misses the chaos of our dysfunctional family. But then I remember: he's too busy preaching to the masses, too consumed by his own ambition to look back. Well, Dad, if you ever do look back, you'll see a family torn apart by your absence. You'll see a son who's both your legacy and your antithesis. And you'll see a world that doesn't give a damn about your megachurch or your grandiose dreams. Until next time, diary, keep these secrets safe. They're all I've got left. Zachary Green, signing off.
Oh, what a glorious day to be me. Woke up, stretched, and nearly knocked my lamp off the nightstand with my "oh-so-lovely" green limbs. Mom's already on my case about the noise I make in the attic. She calls it "that devil music." I call it the symphony of my soul. If the drums don't bang, are you even living? School was the usual circus (I was in my normal, human form by then). Got sent to the principal's office because Mr. Henderson doesn't appreciate my "artwork" on the history test. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself. The Battle of Gettysburg, but with dragons. Historical accuracy is overrated. Kate and I bailed early, decided the walls of education were too confining for our spirits. Went to that new piercing place. Got my tongue done. Mom's going to love that. Another sparkling addition to my rebellion portfolio. Grace tried to lecture me about "responsibility" and "future consequences." I told her my future's so bright, I gotta wear shades. Preferably at night. In a dark room. With Ambush blasting in the background.
Ah, another day in paradise. If paradise was a concrete jungle with a soundtrack composed by the screams of the damned. Or as Mom likes to call it, "Los Angeles." The transformation kicked in right when I was in the middle of the mall. Yeah, because turning into a towering mass of green muscle in public is totally my idea of a good time. Kids were delighted, though. I'm like the Hulk, but WAY cooler. And without the anger management issues. Mostly. Mom called me her "big, green angel" again. I swear, it's like living in a comic book. A really twisted, punk-rock comic book. With piercings. And heavy metal. If this keeps up, I'm starting my own superhero squad. The League of Extraordinarily Annoyed Teenagers. Membership: one. Spent the evening annoying the hell out of my sitter by drumming up a storm. If I'm going down, I'm taking everyone with me with a soundtrack they'll never forget.
Let's talk music, shall we? Not that anyone actually gives a fuck about my musical musings, but hey, who needs an audience when you've got a diary? First up, we've got Ambush. Picture Judas Priest on steroids, led by the god of metal himself, Jack "Animal" Holt. Yeah, that's right, I said god. With vocals that could shatter glass and a stage presence that's pure electricity, Animal's the idol I never knew I needed. Sorry, Mom, but if worshipping a leather-clad metal god is wrong, I don't want to be right. Next in line, we've got Slug. Imagine Motörhead and Pantera had a lovechild, and you've got the idea. A charging, angry bull made out of metal and tank parts? Yeah, that's their mascot. And their sound? Like a freight train barreling through your skull at full speed. Earplugs not included. Then there's Banshee, the thrash metal legends who look and sound like they crawled straight out of a Metallica-Black Sabbath blender. Riffs that could peel paint off the walls, and lyrics that make you want to punch through concrete. Perfect for those days when you just need to let out some steam. Or, you know, demolish a building. Dust of Unity. Ah, power metal at its finest. Lyrics that stir the imagination and melodies that transport you to another realm. They're like the bards of old, weaving tales of heroism and adventure with every note. If only life were as epic as their songs. But hey, a guy can dream, right? And last but not least, Immortal Animals. Glam metal from the '80s, inspired by the likes of Mötley Crüe. Flashy outfits, big hair, and enough eyeliner to make a panda jealous. But behind the facade lies some seriously catchy tunes that'll have you banging your head whether you want to or not. So there you have it, diary. My eclectic taste in music laid bare for all to see. Judge me if you must, but just know that while you're busy judging, I'll be cranking up the volume and drowning out the noise. Zachary Green, out.
Living in a religious household and neighborhood is like being trapped in a never-ending sermon preached by the most self-righteous zealots you can imagine. Oh joy, oh rapture. Mom's always on about "God's plan" and "divine intervention" like she's some kind of holy messenger. Sorry, Mom, but I'll stick to my own plan, thank you very much. Last time I checked, my destiny didn't involve sitting in church pews, nodding along to sermons about fire and brimstone. And the neighborhood? Don't even get me started. It's like a Stepford nightmare, where every house looks the same and every family prays to the same god. Talk about a snooze-fest. Sure, they smile and wave like everything's peachy keen, but scratch the surface and you'll find judgmental glares and whispered gossip. I'm the black sheep in this flock of sheep, and they're just waiting for me to slip up so they can say, "I told you so." But you know what? Fuck 'em. Let 'em pray to their invisible friend in the sky while I blast my music and raise hell. Let 'em judge while I live my life on my terms, consequences be damned. So here's to the frustration, dear diary. Here's to the boredom and the judgment and the never-ending battle against the forces of conformity. May we emerge victorious, or at least with our sanity intact. Zachary Green, signing off.
Ah, the sheer joy of living in a household where I'm considered the "problem child." Let's start with dear old Mom, Margaret, the patron saint of patience—unless, of course, you happen to be her son with a penchant for metal and spontaneous green transformations. She's been on my case again, this time about my "influence" on Grace. Because, clearly, every misstep my dear sister takes is a direct download from the Zachary Green Guide to Rebellion. Speaking of Grace, the so-called innocent lamb of the family, don't let her angelic facade fool you. She's got a knack for stirring the pot and then playing the victim, leaving yours truly to take the fall. It's an art form, really. "Zachary made me do it," she says, batting her eyes. And like the final scene in a bad sitcom, Mom buys it every. Single. Time. It's like living with a pair of emotional magicians, always ready with a sleight of hand to make my patience disappear. Today's episode in the Green family sitcom involved Grace "borrowing" (read: practically abducting) my favorite Ambush band tee. Her defense? "But it looked so much cooler on me, Zach!" Cooler? That shirt has seen more mosh pits than she's seen episodes of whatever brain-numbing series she's binging this week. And Mom's reaction? A heartwarming lecture on sharing and understanding. If I rolled my eyes any harder, I'd be seeing the inside of my skull. But the icing on this cake of familial bliss? The "group hug" initiative. Yes, you read that right. Mom's latest attempt to "heal" our apparently fractured family dynamics involves mandatory group hugs. I can't decide if we're a family or a cult. If I vanish, diary, you'll know I've been smothered in the embrace of familial bonding. So here I sit, plotting my revenge. Maybe I'll crank up my drumming sessions in the attic, or perhaps it's time for a little midnight transformation to remind them of the green giant that lurks in their midst. Or, better yet, I might just hide Grace's makeup. Now, that would be a horror show worth watching. Until next time, diary. Keep it fucking metal. Zachary Green, getting the fuck outta here.
Well, buckle up, because it's time for another thrilling installment of the Zachary Green Show: Home Edition. Where the drama never ends, the sarcasm flows like a river of venom, and the only thing louder than the music in my headphones is the chaos that reigns supreme. Let's start with home, shall we? Ah, yes, the cozy little nest where Mom reigns supreme and Grace tiptoes around like a mouse in a lion's den. Mom's latest decree? Family game night. Because nothing says "fun" like being forced to play Monopoly with your mortal enemies, right? Oh, and let's not forget her latest attempt at peacekeeping: the infamous "sharing is caring" mantra. Tell that to Grace, who's currently hoarding my favorite snacks like they're the last crumbs of civilization. If she thinks I'm sharing my stash, she's got another thing coming. And school? Don't even get me fuckin' started. Mr. Henderson's history lectures have about as much appeal as watching paint dry, and don't even get me started on his taste in test questions. "Name all the presidents in order." Seriously? What am I, a fucking encyclopedia? News flash, Henderson: I've got better things to do than memorize the names of a bunch of old dudes who've been dead longer than my attention span in class. Oh, and let's not forget the joy of group projects. Nothing says "fun" like being stuck with a bunch of slackers who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with a map and a flashlight. If I wanted to carry dead weight, I'd join the circus. At least there, they have clowns. But hey, it's not all doom and gloom. Kate's throwing a party this weekend, and you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be there, ready to drown my sorrows in a sea of music and mayhem. Because if there's one thing that makes this circus bearable, it's the promise of escape—even if it's only temporary. Until next time, diary. Keep the sarcasm flowing and the chaos in check. Zachary Green, peace out.
Ah, the sweet symphony of chaos and carnage. No, I'm not talking about the latest family dinner debacle—I'm talking about Doom, the game that's been fueling my rebellious spirit since the dawn of time. Or at least since I discovered it in my time browsing the web. Mom's been on my case again about my gaming habits. Apparently, spending hours blasting demons and turning pixelated monsters into Swiss cheese isn't what she had in mind when she prayed for her children to find a productive hobby. Sorry, Mom, but when life gives you demons, you grab a shotgun and start fuckin' blasting. It's a metaphor, you wouldn't goddam' get it. But let's talk about the real highlight of my gaming escapades: my Doom wads. Oh yes, I've created my own little corners of hell, complete with custom levels, mods, and enough gore to make even the most seasoned demon hunter blush. Mom's face when she caught a glimpse of one of my wads? Fuckin' Priceless. Like a deer caught in the headlights of my gaming prowess. Sure, she may think it's a waste of time, but she doesn't understand the thrill of creating your own virtual hellscape, of watching as unsuspecting players get torn limb from limb by your meticulously placed traps and ambushes. It's an art form, really. One that I happen to excel at. So while Mom's busy wringing her hands over my so-called "obsession," I'll be here, locked in mortal combat with the forces of darkness, one pixelated demon at a time. Because in a world full of chaos and conformity, sometimes you just need to embrace the doom and gloom. Until next time, diary. Keep it bloody. Zachary Green, Master of Doom Wad Making!
Ah, Sunday fuckin' morning. The perfect time to roll out of bed and head to church, said no one ever in the entirety of the goddamned human race. Except, apparently, my dear old Mom, who thinks dragging her wayward son to church will somehow save my eternal soul. Spoiler alert: it won't. So there I am, sitting in a pew, sandwiched between Mom and Grace, like a sacrificial lamb waiting for the slaughter. The air is thick with the scent of incense and the sound of hymns sung by people who look like they've never had fun in their entire lives. The preacher drones on and on about redemption and forgiveness, while I struggle to stay awake. It's like a bad episode of Sunday school, but with worse acting. But the real highlight? Communion. Ah, yes, the ritualistic consumption of stale bread and watered-down wine, all in the name of "spiritual nourishment." Because nothing says "body of Christ" like a flavorless cracker and a sip of grape juice that tastes like it's been fermenting in the basement since the Last Supper. And let's not forget the judgmental glares from the congregation, like I'm some sort of leper they're afraid will infect them with my rebellious spirit. News flash, church folk: I'm beyond fuckin' redemption, and I wear my rebellion like a badge of goddamn honor. So here's to another Sunday spent in the house of the Lord, where the pews are uncomfortable, the sermons are uninspiring, and the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind is imagining what havoc I could wreak if I were to unleash my inner Green Teen on this sanctimonious circus. Until next time, diary. Keeping the blasphemy to a maximum. Zachary Green, Bored to fucking death!
Oh, the joys of siblinghood. If by joys, you mean endless torment and unrelenting annoyance, then sure, count me in. Grace, my dear sister-or as I like to call her, the bane of my existence—has once again managed to push every single one of my buttons with her infuriating antics, has once again managed to crawl under my skin and set up camp. And let me tell you, the rent-free living is starting to get old. Where do I even begin? Let's start with her incessant need to invade my personal space, like a shadow that just won't go away. I can't even retreat to the sanctuary of my own room without her barging in uninvited, blabbering on about whatever trivial nonsense is currently occupying her feeble mind. News flash, Grace: I don't fuckin' care about your latest crush or your ridiculous dream of becoming a unicorn trainer. It's like she has a sixth sense for finding new and creative ways to drive me up the wall. Take this morning, for example. I'm minding my own business, trying to enjoy my breakfast in peace, when who should come prancing into the kitchen but Grace, all sunshine and rainbows, like she doesn't have a care in the world. She's babbling on about some inane topic—unicorns, rainbows, I stopped listening after the first few seconds—and I'm just trying to tune her out and enjoy my cereal in peace. But no, she won't be ignored. She's like a relentless mosquito buzzing around my head, impossible to swat away. Every word out of her mouth is like nails on a chalkboard, grating on my nerves until I'm ready to scream. And don't even get me started on her latest obsession with borrowing my stuff without asking. My clothes, my gadgets, my precious stash of snacks—it's like she has no concept of personal space or boundaries. I swear, if I find one more of my t-shirts stretched out beyond recognition or one more empty bag of chips hiding in her room, I'm going to lose it. Don't even get me started on her impeccable talent for getting under my skin. It's like she's made it her life's mission to push me to the brink of insanity, one snide comment and passive-aggressive eye roll at a time. If annoying your older brother were an Olympic sport, she'd have enough gold medals to build a shrine to her own insufferable smugness. But the real cherry on top of this misery sundae? Her knack for playing the victim whenever she's caught red-handed in her web of manipulation. Oh, poor innocent Grace, just trying to make her way in the big, bad world while her mean ol' brother rains on her parade. Spare me the waterworks, sister. I'm not buying what you're selling. And of course, Mom and Dad were/are oblivious to her antics. To them, she's the golden child, the apple of their eye. Meanwhile, I'm the black sheep, the troublemaker, the one who can't seem to do anything right. It's enough to make a guy want to run away and join the circus. At least there, I'd get some peace and quiet. So here's to another day in the never-ending saga of sibling rivalry, where the only winner is my skyrocketing blood pressure and the only loser is my sanity. Grace, if you're reading this (and let's face it, you probably are, because invading my privacy is your favorite hobby), consider this a warning: Push me too far, and you'll unleash a storm of wrath the likes of which you've never seen. Until next time, diary. Pray for me and keeping the sarcasm flowing and the rage simmering. Zachary Green, wanting to keel over.
Ah, another day, another journey into the abyss. No, I'm not talking about my latest trip to the mall—I'm talking about my favorite pastime: exploring the darker side of humanity on gore sites. Because nothing says "fun" like subjecting yourself to the grotesque horrors of the human condition, am I right? Yes, that's right, dear diary. Your resident rebel and connoisseur of chaos has a not-so-secret obsession with gore and shock sites. Call it morbid curiosity, call it a twisted fascination with the macabre, call it whatever you want. The fact remains: I can't get enough of the grotesque, the horrifying, and the downright disturbing. There's something strangely captivating about watching the macabre dance of life and death play out in pixelated glory. The blood, the guts, the sheer brutality of it all—it's like a train wreck you can't look away from. And don't even get me started on the comment sections. It's like a cesspool of depravity and voyeurism, and I can't get enough. Sure, Mom would have a heart attack if she knew what I was up to in the darkest corners of the internet. But hey, what she doesn't know won't hurt her, right? Plus, it's not like I'm out there committing the atrocities myself. I'm just a bystander, a curious observer peering into the abyss from the safety of my computer screen. You know, there's something oddly satisfying about delving into the depths of human depravity, like peeling back the layers of a rotten onion to reveal the putrid core within. It's a reminder that beneath the veneer of civilization lies a cesspool of darkness, just waiting to be explored. And who am I to resist the call of the abyss? Some might call it sick, twisted, or downright depraved, but I call it a glimpse into the twisted psyche of humanity and morbid curiosity. It's like a crash course in the darker aspects of human nature, a reminder that beneath the veneer of civility lies a primal, savage beast just waiting to be unleashed. And to me, it's just another day in the life of Zachary Green, the reluctant voyager into the abyss. So bring on the gore, the horror, and the nightmares that haunt the darkest corners of the internet. I'll be here, staring into the void and daring it to stare back. So here's to another night spent diving headfirst into the cesspool of human depravity, where the only rule is there are no rules and the only limit is your own twisted imagination. Until next time, diary. Keep it dark, keep it twisted, and keep it mean. Zachary Green, the Connoisseur of Carnage.
Alright, let’s talk about Moe, our family's so-called "pet" Chihuahua. I call him my "Little Terror" because that's exactly what he is—a four-pound ball of rage and fury. Grace, on the other hand, insists on calling him her "Little Baby." Yeah, right. She babies him so much it's a wonder he hasn't suffocated under the weight of all those ridiculous outfits she dresses him in. It's like living with a furry fashion victim. Grace treats Moe like he's some kind of living doll. Every other day, she's got him decked out in tiny sweaters, bow ties, and even little booties. I swear, if I see that dog in one more tutu, I'm going to lose it. Moe's an animal, not a freaking toy, but Grace doesn’t seem to get that. She’s always cooing at him, carrying him around like he's a designer accessory. It’s nauseating. Meanwhile, I like to keep things real with Moe. None of that cutesy crap. I tease him, sure, but that’s just tough love. Besides, someone has to remind him he's a dog and not some prissy little prince. The way he snarls and snaps at me, you’d think he’s some kind of feral beast. It’s hilarious. And honestly, seeing him go from Grace’s pampered pet to my little terror in a split second is the highlight of my day. Grace gets all bent out of shape when I mess with Moe. She acts like I’m traumatizing the poor thing, but come on, he’s a Chihuahua. He’s built for drama. The dog needs a reality check, not another sequined hoodie. It's like she’s trying to mold him into this perfect, tiny human, but all she’s doing is turning him into a neurotic mess. I mean, the dog shivers in July for crying out loud. Mom doesn't really get involved, which is surprising given her penchant for getting worked up over the smallest things. I guess even she can't muster up the energy to care about a dog fashion show. But whenever Grace starts baby-talking Moe, I can see Mom’s eyes glaze over. Maybe she’s finally realizing how ridiculous this whole situation is. Anyway, Moe’s going to have to learn to toughen up if he wants to survive in this house. Grace can keep babying him all she wants, but when I’m around, he's going to face the real world. One day, he'll thank me for it. Or maybe he'll just keep growling and snapping at me. Either way, it’s more entertaining than watching him prance around in polka dots.
Alright, let's take a trip down memory lane and talk about all the bands and musicians I’ve met over the years. Concerts, gigs, festivals—you name it, I’ve been there, and I’ve seen it all. Some encounters were legendary, others were just plain pathetic. But hey, that's the music world for you. First up, let’s go back to the glory days when I met Jack "Animal" Holt from Ambush. This guy is my freaking idol, the epitome of metal. I was 14 and sneaked into their gig with a fake ID that looked like it was printed off a cereal box. But when I finally got to meet him backstage, it was worth every risk. The dude’s a beast, towering over everyone with his leather and spikes. We talked about music, life, and he even signed my jacket. That was the start of my obsession with piercings—Animal had so many that I decided to up my own game. Next, we move to Slug. Met the band at a grimy, sweat-soaked venue downtown. Their lead singer, Rick "The Bull" Turner, is as intense as they come. The guy’s a walking tank, and their mascot, that angry metal bull, fits them perfectly. Turner was cool enough, but their drummer was a total diva. Complained about the sound system for half the set. Still, getting a pic with Turner and flipping off the camera was pretty rad. Then there was Banshee. Met them at a festival that was more mud than music. These guys are the real deal—pure thrash metal chaos. Talked to their bassist, who was so wasted he could barely string a sentence together. But hey, that’s part of the charm, right? He gave me some of his guitar picks, which I still have. Banshee’s gigs are insane, like being in the middle of a metal hurricane. Dust of Unity was a different vibe. Met them at a power metal festival in the desert. These guys stir the imagination like no other. Their lyrics are epic, and their stage presence is something else. Their lead singer, Liam "Skyblade" O’Connor, is a lyrical genius. We talked about fantasy novels and music for what felt like hours. He even gave me a signed poster that hangs in my room, much to Mom’s dismay. Finally, there’s Immortal Animals. These glam metal legends are like a time capsule from the ’80s. Met them at a reunion gig that was all glitter and hairspray. Their lead guitarist, Axel "Venom" Starr, is still living the glam life, complete with outrageous outfits and big hair. The band was pretty cool, but their ego could fill a stadium. They gave me some backstage passes, which I used to rub in the faces of my so-called friends. Each encounter has been a wild ride, filled with unforgettable moments and a few disappointments. But that’s the price you pay in the world of rock and metal. You take the good with the bad, the epic with the lame, and you keep chasing that next legendary experience. Zachary Green, The Concert Conqueror.