I kept a diary while in eighth grade middle school. I couldn't tell you why really, since I've never considered myself the journal-type: they are way too incriminating if (and when) your enemies manage to get their hands on them. Regardless, there was a time when a younger version of myself jotted down random ideas, short-story plots and philisophical musings on middle-school survivalism.
I specifically remember a short story involving doomsday robots and a semi-automatic colony of retro anthropomorphic goldfish. Another narrative explored the concept of zombie dinosaurs building a time machine and teleporting themselves to present-day Los Angeles, wrecking mad tasty havok upon our sleepy modern-day metropolis. Sweet, I know.
It was also during this time period that I began archiving chemical compounds necessary for the development of pipe bombs and other exotic explosives. This bit of extracurricular chronicling would eventually get me into a world of trouble. That, and an incident involving me, Arturo and a locker full of napalm, but more on that later.