Oh dear lord. I found my high-school diary from my senior year. I can’t not share some of the strange, hormone-induced ramblings.
5.30.01
The girl in front of my is afraid of people with Tourette’s Syndrome.
5.31.01
We just had an intruder alert drill. “Cluster behind the file cabinets. It’s harder for the bullets to penetrate them.”
7.19.01
I am sitting in the doctor’s office lobby. There is a small lab puppy who resides here to keep the nurses company. I feel that this may consistitute a health violation. He is trying to eat a plant that serves as decor in the waiting room. Now the puppy is trying to eat my water bottle. My purse. Sit, puppy. Sit. I have now been informed the puppy’s name is Elvis.
Lie down, Elvis.
Asian man staring at me.
Elvis eating plant.
Asian man is wearing a grey-green suit with navy socks. It bothers me for some reason. He leaves, and now I am alone. Just me and Elvis.
7.20.01
Everything seems dingy and all blurred together today. Everything is dusty, and God just ran his fingers over it, just to make sure.
I like to watch the duct-tape Jesus hanging from the rear view mirror. I made him, and a little crucifix for him to hang on. He lives in Justin’s car now, shaking lightly in sync with the engine, holding on for dear life when Justin takes a 15 mph turn at sixty.
Jesus doesn’t like it when we take his life in our hands.
3.30.02
I had a dream in which I fell in love with a young, curly-haired genius. The dream spanned several years, from college (when I didn’t like him and stole his credit card to spite him) to an architectural expo where I gave it back in a touchingly funny and timelessly romantic scene. Though, in hindsight, stealing one’s credit card only to return it years later is hardly romantic.
Later in the dream, we escaped death by climbing up the walls, and I discovered a calculator program that would categorize people by what flavor of lube they enjoyed most.
5.10.02
I met a man the other day with a sidewalk-staring gaze,
His sour-dour face was one which smiles could never phase.
I asked him for the time and he replied, “Why does it matter? Go buy a watch instead of bugging me with idle chatter.”
My brain began to clatter with harsh words and moral strife,
So I blocked his way and demanded his say on why he hated life.
His eyes locked mine with a soulless stare, a never-ending pit.
“I hate life,” he said ice-coldly, “because I’m living it.”
5.27.02
Loneliness is an empty threat to someone who has never had an oportunity to synchronize their heartbeat with the nervous ticking of a wristwatch.
