Nobody reads blogs. They're as dead as print media. Which is to say they inexplicably still exist. But that's exactly what I need right now. A way to vent without anyone really finding out how my life became a half-baked pretzel. So to you, imaginary reader, thank-you for not hearing my thoughts as I get them off my chest. I don't know what my thoughts are doing on my chest but who am I to delve into my own psychosis?

Now people throughout history from Libanius to Fidel Castro have written a blog in some form or another. You can't tell me even the earliest cave paintings weren't just quasi-artistic Neanderthals bragging about their conquests. Fish-Club-Skeleton indeed. In fact, it was Benjamin Franklin who said 'Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.' And given that I've spent two paragraphs waffling on about the history of autobiographies, I'll get on with the arguable content that is my life and we'll see if I accomplish either.

There's a town you've never heard of called... well, for the sake of anonymity, let's call it Anonymity. There are small towns, there are obscure towns and then there's us. I'd say we were in the middle of nowhere, but that would imply we were at the centre of something. We have a low population, is what I'm getting at. And while the adults of Anonymity lead fascinatingly dull lives, the majority of my life revolves around the adolescents of the town so I'll start there.

Eight hundred and forty seven students attend Fortitude High. Two hundred and something kilometres to the west, a whopping ten students attend Anonymity High School. Yet we still fill all the cliches in the niche. Did you pronounce 'niche' wrong in your head just then? Good, just checking.

If we're going in order of importance, Chelsea Manning is the head and only cheerleader. You know the one, that air-headed, laconic-intolerant gossip who says 'totally' like it hadn't gone out of fashion two decades ago. She's the self-centred head and only member of a dozen committees, as well as having the prestigious honour of being our default popular girl.

Not big enough to create a sporting team of our own, she cheers on our only jock, Brian Keating, when he joins the Calen football team every fortnight. The team is made up of several schools in the pitter-patter of mini-towns between Fortitude and our capital, and it's shown on the scoreboard. To be fair, it's always an 'away' game for them and while I've only bothered attending one match, Brian looked like he was one of the star players, getting upwards of three possessions.

In terms of nerds, Mary Fowler is the Hypatia of Anonymity, as the only person in the history of our little school to receive an A. She may even have gotten two. I'd say she was the teacher's pet, but that would imply our teachers aren't preoccupied with where their own careers had ended up.

Then there's her sister, Bree who, to make a morally dubious comparison, is the only student to receive an O from our little school. By far the hottest person in school, she is also, for lack of a better word, the sluttiest. Out of the six available males that set foot in the school every day, she's slept with five, which included our ex-English teacher, Mr Matthews (he still speaks English, to my knowledge, but writing English ex-teacher would give you a wrong impression of his teeth), and unfortunately my boyfriend, Steve Jackson.

It was before we started dating but knowing he's been there is very intimidating. Steve's the daydreamer of the bunch, always lost in his own mind, reading fantasy novels or doodling on a text book. I'm always curious what he's thinking but it always turns out to be about fictional scenarios like luck dragons or us having a threesome with a celebrity.

The only male Bree hasn't soiled is my best friend, Joey Taylor, mainly because he's dating Mary and hooking up with a sibling's partner doesn't happen nearly as often as your browser history implies. For those of you keeping score, Joey is the class clown. He may not have started out that way but once he came out of his shell and became disillusioned with school and the world in general, he decided disrupting class was the only way to pass the time, and I have to say from a biased point of view, his antics were much more entertaining than the content of most of our subjects.

Vince Anchorage would know this if he showed up for more than two classes a week. He is the closest thing to a bad boy we have at Anonymity High. He can usually be seen smoking at the edge of the school gates. It's not a particularly big perimeter. The school only has the faculty office, an eating area, a unisex toilet, two classrooms, the bare minimum definition of a library and an oval the size of a backyard. The toilet is heavily decorated with slogans and crude drawings, and Vince is the only suspect. He's committed a few misdemeanours but nothing that would get him the death penalty in any 'sensible country', if such a phrase isn't a default oxymoron.

Akala Aranda would be the antithesis of Vince. While Vince ignores anything resembling the norm, Akala takes the 'original' out of 'Aboriginal'. She's best described as a copycat, immediately jumping on any trend Chelsea starts in a misguided attempt to become popular. Chelsea loves her, of course, but more because she loves herself and any friend of fashion is a clone of hers. Of course, it must be difficult to start trends in the first place with the aptly-titled Fowlers' Clothing being the only fashion store in the area and their idea of range being 'selling shoes and shirts'.

That brings us to the biggest cliche of all, Lisa Gardener, the outcast. Do you know how difficult it is to blend into a crowd of ten people and go unnoticed? She's the youngest of all of us by far, but still has to take the same subjects. There's no point in having a class for one person. That's why all of us are on the same class schedule, regardless of intelligence, age and hair colour and it's the primary reason Lisa became emo. If you can't fit in, you may as well show it. But since she won't cut her wrists and we have a mandatory uniform, the only real weapon she has is sitting alone, not wearing makeup, which was what she did to begin with. Still, she does hold the accomplishment of being the only person in the school to not appear in the yearbook three years running. To be fair, it's less a book than it is a photo album of Brian and Chelsea with a page of local advertisements on the back.

And that leaves me. Heather Muse. There's not quite enough about me to fill a book but you'll get to know me. And that's our little school.

Or should I say it was until last month, when we were first introduced to Callum Jennings. Now he wasn't the new, brooding kid with a complex past and a mysterious aura or the shy boy who sat in the corner and waited for the day to be over. However, he was from the Big City so he was immediately more worldly and experienced than even the eldest resident of Anonymity. So everyone flocked around him that first day and made him recount tales of living in the real world. His life wasn't spectacularly interesting but even I was hooked on every word. He was known as CJ by his friends, something that amazed us more than it should have, as none of us had even considered nicknames before, probably because it was already easy to differentiate between the dozen of us. Callum, on the other hand, attended an overcrowded school, with a high rotation of teachers, and a lot more diversity than one aboriginal kid.

I was kind of jealous. I'd never really considered living anywhere but Anonymity, but even if he didn't have the intellect, Callum was more cultured than the rest of us combined. So it was I who naively asked why he'd want to leave all that. I got the obvious answer. It wasn't his choice. His father lost his job and the first available paycheque was in our fair town, taking over Mr Matthews' English class. I offered to show him the things to do in town and, while there were admittedly few, it was quite a fun afternoon. Steve and I took him down to the lake and filled him in on what passed for entertainment in our parts. Evidently, there was a pub in the Big City that also served minors, and we were surprised to hear there was more than one and they served a lot more variety than two brands of beer, boxed wine and an annual shipment of spirits. I listened in wonder as he explained the ups and downs of Jagerbombs.

Now don't get me wrong. Anonymity is not completely in the dark. We're not cut off from the rest of the world and our jaws don't drop when we see a car roll past with no livestock guiding it forward. We have the internet. That is, after all, the tool I'm using to vent my frustration. But it's one thing to watch the news and read about adventure and it's another to have living proof of this magical outside land in front of you, introducing insignificant details that have you on the edge of your seat. For all I knew, my dad could be off in that land, right now, making a life for himself. That gave me hope. It seems silly but since he drove off, I'd always imagined his car continuing to drive, onward forever into nothingness. There is a world outside Anonymity and from the look on Steve's face, he too was filled with childlike wonder during our conversation.

That's what I love about Steve. He doesn't like everything but what he does like, he's fascinated by. And as long as he was fascinated by me, I knew he genuinely felt something for me.

The only thing that fascinates me is history. It's my favourite subject by far and not just because Miss Ferrero lets us chew gum in class. I'd rather hear about Robert Menzies' past than this month's prime minister any day. I suppose that's why I'm writing this. A historical source if you will. Sure, it's heavily subjective but like Anais Nin said, 'We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.' All history is subjective and I need to even the playing field or, at the very least, tell my side. Cave paintings not included.