The story starts with a small blue notebook, of the blue plastic cover variety, which rests in the crevice between my mattress and the bed’s wooden frame. Random things that occur to me right before I fall asleep are all written in this notebook. As you can see, this makes it of great significance and value, if only to me. For the past three or four nights, I have been filling pages with the same copious ardour that Ron vomited slugs in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. However, because I am at the twilight zone between waking and sleep, I hardly ever remember what I’ve written down the next day. This very morning, I did something which I had neglected to do for the past four days. I opened the book, and tried to decipher my weird handwriting. Except, as I flipped through the most recent pages, I found that they were all blank.
Yet every single one had the very noticeable indentation of me having written in it. My pen was out of ink the whole time. I just had never realized it, because I wrote in the dark. With my eyes half-open.
So then I did what every middle school detective book (or was that a Phineas and Ferb episode?) tells you to do. I shaded the page with a pencil, and (surprise, surprise) it yielded zero results. Which brings me to my current situation: my face is stuck in the sad puppy expression that Darcy wears when Elizabeth rejects him in the pouring rain.