Nathan Bransford, Author

Monday, January 4, 2010

THE SECRET YEAR Teen Diary Contest Extravaganza!!

The holidays and the turn of the year are always a time of great reflection for me as I reminisce about the year and contemplate the passing of another....... oh what the heck, let's just get straight to the contest shall we??

This week marks the publication week of Jennifer Hubbard's spellbinding YA debut THE SECRET YEAR, which is about a high schooler, Colt, who was secretly dating a rich girl for a year, and no one knew - not even her boyfriend. When she dies in a car crash he discovers her diary, which is full of memories and unsent letters that describe how much she cared about him and reveals the things she didn't have the courage to tell him while she was alive.

It's a poignant and unforgettable novel about love and loss, and, per Booklist, "is a fine addition to the pantheon of YA literature." Really really amazing, heartbreaking, moving, and etc. Though books don't have a ratings system, THE SECRET YEAR is intended for an older young adult audience and as always all the parents out there should use their own discretion.

So. For the first time IN BLOG HISTORY (er, well, for this blog's history anyway), in honor of THE SECRET YEAR we will have a writing prompt contest!

Your prompt: Write the most compelling (fictional) teen diary entry. It may be a diary entry or an unsent letter, but it should be in a teen's voice.

That's all you gotta do.

Let's start with the prizes.

The GRAND PRIZE ULTIMATE WINNER of the THE SECRET YEAR Teen Diary Writing Contest Extravaganza will win:

- A signed copy of THE SECRET YEAR (pending winner's proximity to the US of A)
- Their choice of a query critique, partial critique, or 10 minute phone conversation/consultation/dish session
- The pride of knowing OMG you are like the greatest writer for teens ever.

Runners up will receive a signed THE SECRET YEAR bookmark (pending finalists' proximity to USA), plus a query critique and/or other agreed-upon prize.

Now for the rules. Please note that all rules may and probably will be amended at my sole (and fickle) discretion.

1. Please enter one teen diary entry not to exceed 500 words in the comments section of this blog post. E-mail subscribers: you must must must must must (must) enter in the official contest thread. Please do not e-mail me your entries! If you need help leaving a comment, please consult this post.

2. You may enter once, and once you may enter.

3. Spreading the word about the contest is not only encouraged, it is strongly encouraged.

4. Snarky comments, anonymous or otherwise, about entries, the weather, the Na'vi tribe of blue people, and/or Mike Tyson will be deleted with relish. You will find the nearest free speech zone approximately 500 pixels away from this blog.

5. Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I'm not worried about typos, nor should you be.

6. I will be the sole judge of the contest.

7. You must be at least 14 years old and less than 137 years old to enter. No exceptions.

8. I'm on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.

9. The deadline for this contest is 4:00 PM Pacific Time on Wednesday January 6th. Finalists will be announced Thursday morning, and you will have the opportunity to vote on the winner, which will be announced on Friday.

To get you in the teen diary spirit, here is a brief excerpt from one of Julia's unsent letters to Colt in THE SECRET YEAR:

Dear CM:

I can't stop thinking about you. I'm supposed to see Austin tonight, and I'd rather chew on sandpaper. If I have to listen to one more story about how wasted he got, or the magic chemical mixture he invented to clean a smudge off his car seats, I'll hang myself. Why do I stay with him? You never ask, but sometimes I wonder if it bothers you that I'm with him. Maybe you're even glad. It lets you off the hook. I told you once that you wouldn't want to be my boyfriend, and you didn't argue with me.

The thing about Austin is, we have a lot in common. We both like dancing and partying, and it's fun until he gets too drunk. Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, I go to his house and the family's sitting around with the Sunday paper all over the place, and maybe we play a game or something, and it's nice. I belong there. With Austin, everything fits. With you, I never know.

Good luck! May the best teen diary writer win!

UPDATE: Time's up! Thank you so much for entering!


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Tina Lynn said...

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe it! My mom ordered me a pizza and went out to dinner with her “boyfriend” as if this were just another normal night in her existence. I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t really existed in her world since “he” showed up. It’s pretty telling, I guess. I try to kill myself and she goes out with “him”. Really? REALLY??? I’m almost tempted to try again just to piss her off. While the nurse was pumping my stomach, she was kind enough to inform me that taking 50 ponstel would just turn me into a veggie plate. If I really wanted to die, I needed to use Tylenol. Much more toxic to the system. Not sure whether I should be thankful or be terribly disturbed that the nurse was giving me tips on how to more effectively commit suicide. I called Janet to tell her what I’d done and she told me that I was depressing her then hung up. Amy B. isn’t allowed to see me. Her parents are mad at me for taking a bottle of pills in front of her. Amy G. is still living with her dad. I have no one. Literally. Well, I have this pizza. I should name him. We could have interesting conversations about the consistency of pepperoni and what it feels like to really live in a cardboard box. God knows there’s no one else to talk to. Now more than ever, I wish I’d taken the Tylenol. Maybe we have some. Later. Maybe.


Nikki said...

Diary, he found my sticky note today.
I’d been so careful to make sure he didn’t see it. I mean, I carry it with me everywhere, but I always make sure it’s in my pocket, or my wallet, or tucked down in my shoe.
But when we got in the car today, I had left it stuck on my steering wheel. I tried to grab it, fold it up and stash it away, but he snatched it up first.
Luckily, I hadn’t labeled it. To him, it was just hash marks. Dozens of them.
He asked me what it was.
I stabbed the key in the ignition and twisted my wrist. The engine roared to life, but not loud enough to cover the sound of my silence.
He poked me in the side and asked if it was a tally of how many times we had kissed. I wish it could have been that easy.
I told him it was just a paper and not to worry about it. Then I asked him where he wanted to go eat.
He folded the paper and stuffed it into the cup holder. He didn’t mention it again until we were on our way back home.
He begged me to tell him, all the way back to his parents’ driveway. I tried to turn up the radio, but he turned it back down and asked again. I think he was getting worried, thinking it was maybe a tally of all the guys I’d kissed or something. Finally, when I cut the engine in his driveway, I decided to tell him.
It took six more minutes for me to actually get up the courage. I asked him if he remembered when I told him I used to cut.
The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees. He nodded.
I stared at my hands like I was afraid they’d fall off if I looked away. “It’s been hard lately not to, and so that’s the paper where I mark the times that I want to cut but don’t. It’s kind of nice to see how many times I’ve wanted to but I’m strong enough to… not.”
Suddenly his hand appeared on top of mine. I moved my eyes to look at him instead. It almost hurt.
He called me babe and told me he was so proud of me for not cutting. Then he smiled in that crooked way that made the world hurt a little less. But of course he couldn’t stop there. He asked if I had a tally for the times I hadn’t been strong enough to… not.
I could almost see the question hanging in the air between us. I wanted to wave it away, stir up the air particles until it disappeared. I shook my head and he reached over to wrap me in his arms.
I couldn’t tell him that I don’t need a paper for that tally. I keep that tally somewhere else.

John Peterson said...


I will not read this; I cannot, for my tears will wash away the ink as surely as my pain washes away the love I feel when I think of him.

If love conquers all, why will it not conquer my fears? He is bold and beautiful while I am weak and afraid. Of what? Our different backgrounds? Religions? What my parents are going to say when I tell them he is the only one for me?

Why must I be condemned to see things through my father's eyes? If I cannot fight for myself, how can I possibly fight for the sweetest, most caring boy I have ever met?

I cannot bear to write more. My own words damn me as much as my inability to act. I am unworthy.

J. M. Sabel said...

Dear Denrei,

After you appeared in my bedroom the other night, I had much more I wanted to tell you and so many more questions to ask. Of course, I thought of stuff to say to you after you left, because in the moment I was pretty overwhelmed, with you being an Angel and all.

Since I have no idea if I’ll ever see you again, I’ve decided to write you letters, though; I have no idea where to send them. I can only hope you’ll visit me again one day. For an Angel you’re pretty hot. I hope this is okay to say. Your name is really cool, so I did some research. I wonder if you know it means messenger in Japanese? Of course you probably do. Are you a special kind of Angel? Do you visit other kids like me? Are there other kids like me?

I could never tell my parents, or even my sister, about seeing you. They already think the blinding headaches I suffer from are in my head, literally. There are plenty of other things I’ve never had the guts to share with them, like sometimes the world speeds up and slows down. It’s in those times things in life become clear to me. At other times I think I can almost hear the thoughts or voices of other kids calling to me. Afterwards, I get one of my headaches and a ringing in my ears. My parents think I just don’t want to go to school, because of my learning difference and that I just can’t concentrate. I just want to stay home in agony, because my head hurts. Sure school is harder for me, but I still try. My parents are angry, because I refused to take medication for my learning disability. The drugs made me feel … well not like me.

Today, my mother dragged me to school, on a weekend no less, to attend a conference on kids with ADHD. When I passed through the double doors of the auditorium, I was transformed into one of many specimens and research tools of the numerous studies going on for my condition, which seem so prevalent today. Yet, the teachers are still so ill equipped to handle us. We are labeled the ADHD/kids with executive function disorders and viewed as “square pegs” that don’t fit in the nice round holes.

As I sat there, knowing I’m different from the “norm”, I thought that just like over centuries evolution has taken place by mutation, perhaps I might be the next generation of humans whose abilities will far surpass those around me. Perhaps they are the “square pegs” and I am the “norm”.

Is that why you’ve come? Is something going to happen?

à la vanille said...

Dear Diary,
Boy am I pissed. You know that concert I’ve been raving about for two weeks? Yeah, ruined. How? Well, I went there to see The Sharks. Oh, I was seeing them all right, but could I hear them? No. Why? Because of this psychotic girl next to me. Let me define psychotic.

-Flailing arms that almost smacked my head
-Jumping high, literally and figuratively.
-A mouth so wide a dentist would be able to stick his whole arm in it
-The mouth is also screaming somewhat crudely to the lyrics, with high-pitched squeals in-between verses
-In addition, the voice cannot sing. At all. I have to wonder if this is because all the loud yelling has made her so deaf she cannot hear herself.
-An attempt at dancing in-between jumping high and flailing arms. Notice word attempt.

I couldn't hear a word Mitch Shark was singing. As you can imagine, the people around me were beginning to get pissy, too, and not the peeing kind. Tired of all this shrieking, I called the closest security guard and pleaded him to get her the hell away. I don't know what is it about cops these days, but he told me, "Why don't you take her away?" And before I knew what was going on, the girl was draped across my shoulder and everyone was oh so kind to make room for me, and her, to leave. I carried the girl, still shrilling in my ear, out into the parking lot and tried to make her tell me who she was and where she lived. But all she would do was sway back and forth and mumble the lyrics to Lovely Lady, so that when I asked her, "Where do you live?" she'd say, "Oh, I can't get enough of my lovely lady." And then I'd smack my forehead. The crowds were cheering inside and I could hear Mitch say, "Thank you, you're such a lovely audience!" I had two choices:

1. I could ditch her and go back inside
2. Bring her drunk ass home with me

Because I'm such a good Samaritan, I chose number 2. Why? Well, she looked as young as I was, and when you're as young as I am, you can't be passed out on the street. Since she wasn't being cooperative, I figured she could sleep a night at my house and maybe in the morning be a little sane to tell me about herself. So I put her in my car, buckled her seat belt, and didn't dare turn on the radio in fear of her singing again. By the time I got home, she was dead asleep. I had to carry her to the couch, which was okay since she was kind of light. Now all I have to do is wait for Mom to come home so I can explain why a drunk girl is snoring on her loveseat. Maybe some other time, Sharks.

Your Greatly Pissed,

Rebecca said...

Dear Juliet,

I realize you are a notebook and not a person but I want you to have a beautiful name anyway. It can go a long way you know. I’ve decided to write in you even though I swore I never would. Journals are a dangerous business when you have mothers who like to snoop. I shall take my chances.

Juliet, tomorrow is a big day. It’s my bat-mitzvah. I’ve been thirteen for three months now, but I am not yet a woman in the eyes of the Jews. This has been heartbreaking for me because I take my religion very seriously. I told mom I don’t like pork chops, but I really do. I’m just afraid G-d will smite me at my bat-mitzvah in front of all my family and friends if I eat the forbidden meat.

In case you were wondering, I’m going to do great tomorrow. I’m really good at reading Hebrew and I have a strong speaking voice. Uncle Earl told me so. He said none of his grandchildren have as much presence as me. I told him it was because none were as smart as me and he told me to watch my mouth. But it’s totally obvious. My cousins are absolute morons. Especially Frank. I don’t even think he can read.

I’m worried about who to pick for my first slow dance. I want to pick Brian. Last week he walked out of English when I was walking in and told me there was a pop quiz. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly I got really dizzy and had to lean against the lockers so I didn’t fall down. Brian got real close to my face and asked me if I was ok. I told him he made me dizzy and he stopped talking to me. Maybe I’ll just ask Scott because he likes me. He picks his nose though. The only adult I know that picks her nose is my Granny.

Juliet, I should go to sleep so that I do amazing tomorrow. I know I will, but I promise to write tomorrow night to let you know that I am a worthy Jew.



JDuncan said...

Dear Diary,

Can I ask you why it is so many "young adult" books are so dark and full of angst or you know, ruled by bitches and assholes? I started talking to you years ago because you were suppose to be my outlet for all of these dark and angsty moments in life, a place for me to brood on how life was just all full of suck. You were suppose to be my muse, my therapist to direct me through the hell of boys and having my heart stomped on. Did you forget the whole "boys" part? Yeah, I thought so. Where's my drugs, my pot and ecstasy to lose myself in because life is just all so pointless and lacking meaning? Have you noticed the dearth of entries?

My life has none of this troubling yet mandatory teenage excitement. It's dull. Life is actually sorta good. Has been for quite a while now. No boys to speak of but they don't retch in my presence either you know? I think Emily from Biology has a crush me. Does that count? My grades are good, my parents present some semblance of sanity and understanding. It's just all so normal. To be honest, what's the point of all this? Why am I even writing to you any more? I get nothing out of it. It's just fucking words on paper you know? Now, if you talked back, maybe that would be interesting. Maybe we could get into some trouble together. Maybe you could mess with my life some? Some heartbreak maybe? Show me some angst and darkness, bitch. Bring it on!

Ah well, what do you know? You're just a diary.

Dear Mia, your thoughts are duly noted. You want a 'real' teenage life? So be it. I'll bring it on. Bitch.

Marci said...

Dear Rachel,

Please don't be mad at me! You are my best friend in the whole world! If you stop being my friend, I honestly do not know what I will do. I'll have to gouge my eyes out to get the tears to stop. I'm sorry things didn't work out with you and Ted. He just liked me more. Anyways, you always ALWAYS get what you want, ever since pre-school when you got the extra jello cup on MY birthday. Like my mom told me, life isn’t always fair. You are beautiful, and on the volleyball team and have a great body. I just get so jealous sometimes that I want to scream.

You and Ted were the perfect homecoming queen and king. You’ve always been the perfect couple. My mom says your always get your way because all the other girls in school want to be you while all the boys want to date you. I say it’s because you whine a lot. But either way, it's not fair! Why do I always have to be your ugly sidekick? At school, I stand next to you and I feel like I'm invisible. The boys don't even know that I exist. I could be dancing around naked while balancing a ball on the top of my head, juggling frogs from biology (the ones you don’t mind killing) and the guys wouldn't even glance my way.

Honestly, I don't think I'm hideous. Yeah, I may have a slightly curvier figure but I'm not a whale and I finally got my boobs too! The accutane is starting to work so I think people will stop calling me pimple queen soon. As an added bonus, my braces are coming off next month. My mom says I'm a nice person, so why shouldn't I get the boy for once? Ted thinks I'm beautiful; he told me so the other night. Please let me just this once have it all. You’ll have another boy lined up in seconds. I bet you are already dating someone (but it better not be Justin Miller or I’ll spit on your locker tomorrow.)

The best thing is, Ted is gorgeous! And he likes my smile. I'm sorry he chose me over you but I promise the three of us can still hang out. We won't make you feel like you're the third wheel. You can even be the maid of honor at our wedding. Your blue eyes and tan skin will look so beautiful in the lavender colored dresses that I have picked out (in my mind of course).

Love your best friend always,

M.B. Sandefur said...

Dear Diary:

Today I got a birthday card from my father. It was completely unexpected and also unwanted. I don’t consider him a part of my life anymore, good or bad; I just don’t. There are so many things that I want to say to him but I know I’ll never be able to because he’s never around. Maybe you can be my father today, Diary.

(Diary) Dad,
I forgive you for everything. I forgive you for cheating on my mother just about the entire time you were married to her and for lowering her spirit so far to the ground that it has taken her nearly five years to get some semblance of herself back. I forgive you for the verbal abuse. (Telling me that I was a failure to you was great for my self-worth.) I forgive you for leaving us and not coming around to see me or my siblings after the divorce, even when you promised you would. I can even forgive you for not helping Mom out with even the smallest amount of child support so that I wouldn't have to work during my spare time and miss a lot of my high school milestones.
Those are things that I should hate you for but I don’t. I did, but not anymore. That constant struggle there is every time I hear the word “father” does not apply to me anymore. Not one day longer. Let some other girl with daddy issues have my pain because I’m done. Let’s be real. I was only hurting myself with my anger and rage at your constant betrayal of your own family’s trust and love. It’s evident that you didn’t care, don’t care now, and probably never will care. So why should I? This is my goodbye.

I would tell him those things if I could get a hold of him, Diary. It’s been approximately one year since we’ve spoken, since he’s spoken to either Shawn or Ray. I couldn't care less about what he would have to say in response. I would just want to get what I had to say out--then hang up.

Anyway, I’ve got to get some good sleep tonight. Tomorrow I have a Leaders of Tomorrow meeting (after cheerleading, of course) and the president can’t be late!

Liz Czukas said...

Dear Caitlin,

I have to go to your funeral today. I don’t even want to go, but everyone’s going to be there and they’re all going to cry over you. You’re on the news, did you know that? The reporters keep calling it a great tragedy. I bet they’re even going to be there today. Jenny R. and Jenny H. have been crying non-stop since you died, and you just know they’re going to be all waterproof mascara dressed in black bullshit today.
Everyone keeps asking me if I’m okay, and I have to lie and say that I am. Because that’s what you do when you’re the best friend. It’s what you would have had to do. But I’m not okay. You ruined everything, Cait, and I’m never going to forgive you.
You were always a copycat. Always. You couldn’t let me have anything for myself. It always had to be a competition, which was complete BS! You were already better than me. You were prettier and smarter and more popular. But you still couldn’t let me have anything. You already had everything. EVERYTHING!
You were already skinny, but when I started losing weight, you just had to show off. You always had to be better than me. I fucking hated that.
You know what the worst part is? They’re going to turn you into some kind of saint now. There’s going to be two pages about you in the yearbook, at least. Like all of a sudden everyone loved you. Like you weren’t a bitch to 90% of them. Like they didn’t all call you a slut in the bathroom. Just because you died. Like that changes anything.
Just so you know, the day after you died, Brian Fischer kissed me. He told me that he’d always liked me, but everyone knew that you liked him so he couldn’t say anything. You even had to keep Brian from me.
I’m going to tell you a secret, Cait. This is the last secret I’ll ever tell you, and for once, I know you won’t tell anyone else. Not even Jenny R. Here it is: It was supposed to be me. I was supposed to die and make everyone love me. I was going to be the girl in the yearbook with the two-page spread. I wanted it to be me. I wanted to have something that you could never have, but you took that from me, too. You’re such a bitch. Even dead you’re a bitch.
You were already skinny. You didn’t need to lose any weight. But you had to make sure that you lost five more pounds than me. So your heart fails and I’m still fat. How is that fair?
I hate you, Caitlin. I really hate you. But I fucking miss you, too.

Love You,

Amykated said...

Dude, L’s Grandma picked a horrible time to croak. Without him here to distract me, I couldn't stop thinking about our secret stash, and by seventh hour my jonesing for a j surpassed all other thoughts and needs. When they let the cheerleaders and the band freaks out early to get ready for the pep assembly, I lied to Miss Jefferies and told her I played the tuba. Dumb cow effin' believed me. Anyway, I snuck into the dressing rooms behind the stage, slid the ceiling tile away like he's shown me, and climbed up there to do my thing.

Here's where it got weird.

So I'm perched up there enjoying my own personal happy hour when I hear somebody come into the's Gina Hamilton. This could be a good show I figure. Maybe she'll strip out of her little cheerleading outfit. Maybe I'll get to see some grade A tits. I don't know. So I pushed the ceiling tile back a little farther, not enough to get caught, just enough to see the full show. And in walked the Beef-eater.

By this point, my head was feeling nice and fuzzy, so I snuffed the joint and put it back in it's hiding place. I couldn't risk coughing and getting caught by him. The Beef-eater walked up to Gina and bit her neck, pawing at her fine breasts like a gorilla on crack. I won't lie, though it's embarrassing to admit, I sprouted a little wood. (Any red-blooded male would have.) Then they did it. Yep, that's right. I repeat, I saw Mr. Beefy and Gina-miss-perfect-valedictorian-Hamilton humping like bunnies in the dressing room. I was sitting up there trying not to lose my shit, like, seriously wondering what hallucinogenic crap was in the weed I'd just smoked. To make sure I wasn't tripping out and losing my mind, I whipped out my phone and recorded it. They headed out to rah rah siskoombah, go team go, and all that shiznittle while I watched it over and over on my phone.

And guess what?
It's real.

Do you realize what this means? I have a video of the head cheerleader banging our football coach/science teacher. This is ultimate power, amigo. Like, LOTR one ring to rule them all, powerful. Epic, like the Allspark to the Transformers. This is our ticket out of Loserville. Man, L and I could make a huge wad of cash selling this sex tape on the internet. We could use it for blackmail. The possibilities are endless.

But first, L needs to get his ass back to Iowa. He and I have got some planning to do.

Joyce Lansky said...

Thanks for the contest.

January 5, 2010

Today I had to go back to dumb high school. As I headed through the door, a huge wad of tumble weave rolled past me. 7:15 and girls are already yanking each other’s hair out. Christmas vacation is over, and I’m stuck back here—two more years of this shit. I think I’ll nail myself to a tree. Yeah devils! Like so what if we get to wear blue-horned hats at the b-ball games?

So Diary, remember I told you about the other Brittany Johnson? She’s the girl in my bio class who has the same name as me. That girl is so lame she thinks osmosis is something you smoke and mitosis means buying new shoes with 8-inch heels. Of course she can’t even walk in them when sober, which isn’t often.

Last year, her water broke at the school talent show. The whole auditorium listened to her screaming before the ambulance arrived. Teachers like to deny all the pregnancies at our school. Maybe if they ignore them, they won’t exist. And they call ME a loser?

But today I learned that there’s no-pretending-Brittany-doesn’t-exist. She IS here and has MY name! What happened today beats all. I got home from school like usual, yet Mom and Dad are pissed. If we’d had wood in our fireplace, it would’ve self-ignited from the smoke coming from my parents’ ears.

Guess what? They got a call today from Miss Otto at school. She’s that weird guidance counselor who always says, “I’m Otto, O-t-t-o backwards and forwards. Toot inside out. If you ever see me in the bathroom, be sure to say hello.”

Hello-o? Like I’m not weird enough without talking to her. Anyway, that Otto lady told my parents that instead of being in class, I was in the park smoking weed.

OMG! I spent the whole boring day listening to all my teachers—blah, blah, blah—and they’re calling home to say I wasn’t there and doing drugs? Maybe Mom and Dad need to think about this before having a major hissy. I’m an honor’s student who doesn’t even drink Coca Cola. I don’t have many friends and stay home on weekends, so why would I skip school to toke? Do my parents believe me? No. They’re rifling through my drawers and attacking my closet in search of drugs. They even asked me to piss in a fucking cup. Come on Mom and Dad, you know it’s got to be the other Brittany Johnson.

So I called Nicki to get her to vouch for me—tell them I was there and all, but she had a laughing fit. My friend sounded like she’d pee her pants. Meanwhile, I’m grounded for something I didn’t do. This sucks more than wearing a blue-horned hat to the b-ball game.

Being a teenager sucks!
The REAL Brittany Johnson

Miss Tammy said...

Dear Diary,

Joanna Wilie is the Devil.

Seriously, I should have figured it out long ago.

Like, remember the time that she talked me into buying that red dress? The one with the stupid little bows that made me look like a toddler? Clearly, evil.

And what about the time she made me those brownies and I ended up in the emergency room? Forgot that I was allergic to peanut butter, my ass!

Years and years of tiny insults and small displays of villainy, all of which I overlooked in the name of friendship.

Not any more.

This time she has gone too far. I’ve seen through that mask of innocence and discovered the monster that lurks underneath.

She is not going to get away with this, Diary. I will get revenge if it’s the last thing I do.

Kristin Rae said...

Dear Diary,

Don’t know why I still personify you like that. And I probably should have grown out of telling you my secrets, but here I am. Again. Still. Going nowhere, actually. That’s what Dad says, anyway.

I don’t know what his problem is. Is it too much to ask for a little support? Is it too much to ask for a little boost in my confidence? I know I’m worth something. I mean, throw a girl a freaking bone.

Or maybe that’s too literal of an idea. He’d probably love to throw me a bone. Probably would tell me to fetch, too. But he doesn’t see me as a cute, cuddly puppy. To him, I’m more like the mangy stray dog you keep putting food and water on the porch for because you feel just a little bit bad about kicking her that one time. But just a little bit. Not bad enough to actually let her in the house when it’s below freezing. Not bad enough to actually scratch her behind the ears or tell her she’s a pretty girl. Not bad enough to tell her you love her. No. Much too literal.

I’ve thought about things I could say. Things to maybe change his mind about me. That I do have brains and that I know one day a man will think I’m something special. I’ve memorized several arguments, in fact, but there’s a problem. I just can’t talk to someone that won’t look me in the eye. And seeing as how he hasn’t even looked my general direction in two years, I’d say we’re just about done.

He’s coming back home in two days.

That’s why I’m running away tomorrow.

Guess I'm going somewhere after all.

Thanks for listening. I knew you’d understand.



Bethany Mattingly said...

My Dearest No One,
Something hit me today. It was rather unexpected, like drinking the milk straight from the carton, only to have a congealed mass of sour milk splat on your face, yeah that kind of unexpected something. No matter how I try to wash it out of my mind, the sour taste still lingers there, putting myself in a permanent state of dissatisfaction.
We finished reading a Shakespeare play today in English class. I guess I should have clued in when my teacher said it was a tragedy, but alas, no. I mean, surely the “greatest romance story ever created” has a satisfactory ending right? WRONG! They die! Romeo and Juliette DIE!
My teacher prattled on about love lasting forever and the importance of forgiveness, but I was too busy being horrified to listen. Sure, their families become great friends after their children have DIED from their own stupidity, but what good is that? Nice going Capulets and Montagues, way to show the masses the importance of getting along, too bad your children had to DIE for you to see the light.
The thing I really don’t understand, is what was going on with all the girls? I mean, seriously, I’m a girl, but the last thing I’m going to do is cry over a love story gone that horribly wrong. I swear, half the class was sitting there looking like Niagara Falls. Not only that, I’m fairly certain I saw Kurt Johnson, quarterback of the football team, who is retaking this class yet again, rub his eyes one too many times for a stray eyelash to be the cause. For heaven’s sake my fellow students, it’s not like it’s The Notebook.
The thought did strike me to write the ending over again myself. This is what I came up with.
Act IV Scene i
Juliette: Friar! I shall never be joined with that man, Paris. He is ghastly!
Friar: Nay, he shall not do! Romeo is your love.
Juliette: Alas, it is impossible, Romeo is scheduled to die. Perhaps, I shall join him. Then we can be together for eternity.
Friar: Nay, nay, dear Lady. That will never succeed. Please allow my assistance to thee. I shall free your Romeo. You can escape together!
Juliette: Oh, my dear friend. Would you? Could you? I would be most grateful.
Friar: Consider it done my girl. Go, prepare to ride away with your love.
Juliette: Hold on, sweet Romeo. Wait for me, sweet Romeo.
Yes, I know as wonderful as my rendition was, it just isn’t the same. It’s only because no one is going to read this letter that I’m willing to confess this last line…I like spoiled milk on my face, if it comes in the Romeo and Juliet variety. Sickening, I know.
Many loves my dearest No One,
Your Juliette

Tana said...

Dear Diary,

Today was my first day at the homeless shelter and I don't know if I can go back tomorrow. Volunteering should make me feel good about myself but I feel the opposite. In fact, it makes me sad that I can't do much of anything to help.

I can't get over this one boy who was there. I didn't mean to stare at him the way I did but I couldn't help myself. He couldn't be more than sixteen, which is a year older than my own age. I wanted to ask him what he was doing there but I didn't have the courage. Underneath his dirty face, I saw a handsome boy who could possibly turn a number of teen girls’ heads. He had perfect black eyes, a crooked nose and curly dark brown hair.

As much as I tried to avoid thinking of him and his situation while serving everyone food, I couldn’t stop. The volunteer coordinator caught me off guard when she nudged my shoulder. Startled, I nearly knocked off a stack of paper plates. “I’m sorry.” I felt relieved when she gave me a small smile and walked off. The last thing that I’d want was for her to ask if anything was wrong.

I turned my head to look for the boy but he was gone. I felt strange, intrigued by someone that I didn't even know. I shook my head and went outside for some fresh air, trying to forget about him.

The second I step foot outside, I heard a low growl on my left. "Do you know that it's rude to stare?" The boy's rhetorical question stunned me. I felt a million sparks rush through every nerve in my body. I'm sorry. Although I didn’t verbally say it, I hoped that my eyes mirrored the apology. Up close, he reeked like yesterday's trash that I wanted to pinch my nose. “Don’t feel sorry for me rich girl. It’s not your place to judge.” I felt vulnerable being cornered by him. Fear got the most of me and if I wasn’t careful of what I said, his temper could easily be triggered.

I remained motionless but with a watchful eye. “I entered this world with nothing and I plan to leave it with nothing.” I was hoping that he’d say more but he left me hanging when he walked toward the big city streets with a smirk. What a strange guy!

My brief encounter with him spun my head for a bit. I don’t know if I’ll see him again but a part of me wants to see him tomorrow.

There’s more than what meets the eye.

Good night, Diary.

Matt Hilliard said...

11/4/09 - Noticed this morning that M's status message says she's feeling frustrated. The song she's listening to is You Belong To Me by Taylor Swift. Reference to me? Long shot I guess but I was almost late for the bus because I was looking for more evidence on her profile.

Told D my theory about M's status/song. Probably a mistake. D spent entire bus ride comparing my life to the lyrics. "Gee I forget which cheerleader you're dating" "Your smile lit up the town that time you had glow in the dark braces" etc. Got very loud, hope no one heard.

French test was a disaster. Pluperfect is such bullshit.

Got stuck in huge line at the cafeteria again. D came by with his stupid iPhone and showed me how much M posts on Tyler's wall. She's known Tyler longer than she's known me. Tyler's an idiot though. Couldn't lose place in line so had to listen to D's guesses re: Tyler/M future prospects, Tyler/M sex, Tyler/M children's attractiveness, etc. etc.

M ate with the group at lunch. Tyler too. Watched for any hints. Nothing clear. Tyler was doing homework for math and kept asking stupid questions. M mostly talked to S about American Idol crap.

Spent math thinking over options. 1) Get someone to ask her what song means to her. Not sure who. Possibly K. Risky though. 2) Suggest group go see a movie, don't invite Tyler, see if she objects. 3) Make my status message similar and list an appropriate song. Not sure which. Has to be a guy singing/rapping or D will be all over me.

On bus ride home, D sent M some text making a Kanye/Taylor Swift joke. Showed me first of course. Considered another option: 4) murder-suicide (D, of course, not M)

Spent evening thinking about this instead of doing homework. Doing homework would have been more fun. Leaning toward option 3. Mentioned the problem (very generally) to Mom. "Why don't you just ask her out?" Jesus. Tried to explain why that's obviously out of the question and got nowhere. Should have realized that someone who can't even figure out facebook can't possibly understand the situation.

Ju Dimello said...

Dear DD (Read as Dumb Diary instead of Delicate Darling),

It's been the wierdest two weeks in my thirteen yr old life and hence my absence.

Before you go bonkers on me, let me explain..

After my usual date with you the other night, I went for a stroll in the moonlight, imagining being rescued by a dashing prince and being thrust headlong into a fairy tale adventure…

What the heck.. I saw a bracelet with odd symbols, shining in the backyard and I picked it up..Wow..It dazzled, tempting me to try it on. Of course I did, and so you know, I’m still wearing it.

From the next day, I started to ache in a queer manner, especially whenever a cute guy glances or smiles at me. I told this to Jenny and she assured me that it was a part of growing up and that I’m finally becoming a woman. Whatever that meant!

I didn’t want to probe further since she was the only one who still spoke to me - after being labeled dumb (you know I’m not) and stupid (you also know it means – Super Talented Unique Person In Demand, so it’s alright).

Guys noticed me a lot that day. The pain just became unbearable. I bunked classes and came home. And I checked in the mirror - Purple bruises in the neck started back at me. Gosh. I didn’t want to be strangled for the only reason that I’m cuter than other girls.

Damn it all to hell. If this was part of growing up and becoming a woman, I certainly don’t want to grow up at all..

Thank goodness I’d saved up my pocket money. I just rushed to the nearby walmart and bought myself a turtleneck sweater to cover up the blue-black tinge. And cried the whole evening. I stopped looking at guys from then onwards. :(

You know what? Dan chose the same day to stop talking to me. He said I wouldn’t understand and slammed the door at my face, when I pressed him for answers. That night I heard a some sound coming from his room – like some lady’s muffled shrieks and when I opened his door and peeped in, I found him sound asleep.. Strange isn’t it?

Come morning, I couldn’t find my shadow. Yes. It’s true. I kept searching for it. And guess what? Today, he came into the class, saw me and smiled. Two miracles happened. One, I didn’t feel the searing pain and right there at my legs, sat my shadow. Checked now, yep, it’s there.

The strangest thing is the continued silence at home. Where my parents yelled at each other almost every day, they seem afraid to utter a sound for the past two weeks.. It gives me the creeps.. except when I think of him.

dawnallen20 said...

Dear Diary,
1. I hate Mondays.
2. I hate peas.
3. I hate that crust that forms in my eyes over night.
4. I hate math – a subject designed for the sole purpose of turning me into a mushy pool of tears every night.
5. I hate school dances – the drama – the boredom – the dresses.
There’s a dance Friday. Brad asked Carrie, but she’d already agreed to go with Taylor who just wanted to make Heather jealous because she was going with Colton. So, Brad asked me – that’s what I am. I’m a vengeance date.
Mom took me shopping. Worked me in between court appearances. Of course, she spent that time tapping her Ferragamo pumps, and talking into her cell to her law clerk. The most input I got was a frown, a head shake, and a rather rude wave meaning take it away.
Did I mention I hate dances?
Brad called. He talked about Carrie. I stared down at the hieroglyphics of my math homework. My new dress hangs in full view. White. Virginal. Slinky, hugging curves I don’t have – not like Carrie.
Brad hangs up. Probably to call Carrie.
I think I hate boys too.
School, after school job, home, homework, bed, sounds boring. It’s way more complicated than that. Every morning I jump out of bed and step on metaphorical landmines.
Mom’s having an affair with the Methodist preacher. Check. Grandma’s memory ended with the cold war. Check. Dad’s having a mid-life crisis that includes the community theatre and denial of his wife’s infidelity. Check.
I guess I’m grateful for the relative boredom of the school-job-homework-bed thing, a relief from the land mine problem.
Today’s? Your’s truly cast as Juliet in our version of Romeo and Juliet. “A Balcony in Time,” written by a drama professor at the college. Personally, I think he should stick to the drama gig but who’m I to judge? I’m a thespian so the role isn’t the issue…the issue is who they cast as Romeo.
A guy with Taylor Lautner’s body and Robert Pattison’s bed head. A guy who turns me into a blithering idiot with just one look from those intense blue eyes.
Today is the balcony scene. I’ll probably fall, land in the fountain, break a bone, and have to watch my understudy make goo-goo eyes at my Romeo. And my understudy? Shoot me now. Cammie – cheerleader extraordinaire – blonde, perfect, and my worst enemy since 4th grade when I bested her in a playground fight.
Personal disaster. Check.

cmd said...

Dear You,

Manipulation is the key to survival. Remember that next time and maybe life will be easier for you. I wish it were easier for me. You look at me and think you know, think that you understand all that you see. You see the blonde hair, the well put together smile, the makeup, the sexy mystery. You see how wonderfully giving and helpful I am. You see the other girls stare at me in awe and reverence. The truth is they stare at me in disgust and envy, fear and hate. They want to be my friend so that I won’t destroy them. You want to be my friend because you think that I have a good heart. That you can see through what is bad in me to my truth, or some such stupid crap like that. You beam during the moments when I turn it on, my charm, my glow. It’s like I have a power over people. It is my gift and my curse.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to get to know me. I am not worth it. Not worth the pain I will cause you.

Yours truly,

Kelly R. Morgan said...

EJ Post #8452

Not sure when the next time I'll be writing is. Yeah, I know. How melodramatic. Could be worse.

Turns out, Mom's not real thrilled my fingernails are turning into microchips. Not sure I want to write out what Dad said as he caught me drying my mesh wraps off. All because I hate slipping my fingers into wet mesh. Point is, I'm bonked. Now it's good bye StarFaller 24, hello Aunt and Uncle Terrified-of-technology-so-I-stayed-on-Earth Griffon. Wonderful.

The worst part? My mom thinks the microchips will disappear once I'm dropped off on that wasteland of a planet. I've showed her information proving they won't but she doesn't listen. As long as it doesn't get worse were her words. I figure, why not go all the way? Tried rationalizing. Asked her, wouldn't it be helpful to have a full nanotechpath daughter on the ship? Pointed out uses where a person like me would be needed, embraced. I even tried appealing to her emotions ('cause she has enough of them) reassuring her I wanted my microchips. That they weren't a curse.

Her mind is closed off. She'd eradicate all gadgets if she could. Bit overboard in the drama department there. Dad just nods and says Mom knows best. She thinks Earth will be a better fit. She doesn't know me. Down there, they don't even allow jet propulsion packs without a license. I've got shots of the place. Trust me this is bad.

I'd try to sneak you with me, EJ, but it's dubious anyone there knows what you are. I start pulling you out willy nilly and we'd have what Mom would call a disturbance. No, the only way out of this situation is to keep my head down and act compliant. Besides, I can always start the process again when I return. When she thinks she's won. All I lose is some time. Even that's fixable.

Mom can delude herself all she wants. She's getting much needed help for her tech obsessed daughter. When I'm back, I'll be more careful. At least, I will be until the chips spread to my face. Then, I'm showing it all off. Exposed.

Until later, EJ. Keep yourself safe for me. For when I need you again.

Linda Godfrey said...

(Note: last week I think I said I didn't like diary-style books, so I am entering to get over that. And it is working. This is fun.)

Death by Zit

Dear Blogary,

Mikki, here -- empress of the Kingdom of Zit. Think I exaggerate? Picture a wall-to-wall pimple carpet, installed from my high forehead to my square chin, and that is me. I’m bedazzled with zits. Gifted at them. I am an acne overachiever -- the Amazing Pizza-Faced Girl of Nestor High. I would borrow the lyrics of my mom’s Beatles album and say I am the walrus, too, but a walrus has lovelier skin. Koo koo ka choo.

Ouch, you say. I understand. I’ve painted a hideous picture. But there are worse things than zits, which you can almost hide with makeup, and which do go away eventually. And I’d rather have rotten skin than a rotten soul, as do certain people whose names shall not blemish these e-pages. Yet.

Besides, being the QOZ -- Queen of Zits -- got me my soon-to-be boyfriend, Brock. Almost. It will happen.

And no, he is not the KOZ. And please don’t accuse me of “dating up.”

Yes, I do normally hang out with the blemish bunch. We share many issues the Smoothies never have to consider. To squeeze, or not to squeeze? Avoid pizza, chocolate and French fries, or believe the studies that say diet doesn’t matter? (I vote studies, for sure.) Of course, we don’t discuss those things often; we hang mostly because we get each other. Truth be told, though, the Smoothies are just as exclusive with their own messed up cliques.

And sometimes, dear Blogary, they turn out to be Zitties in disguise, as I discovered yesterday when I dashed into the restroom between classes and caught Tundra Easterday smearing face spackle over a nest of pore pods on her left cheek. She looked like a cornered squirrel for only an instant, and then got right to the point.

“How much do you want for not telling?” she asked as she brushed a handful of dark curls over the camouflaged area.

“The oil from your hair will make that flare worse,” I said, trying to sound helpful. She turned to glare at me full on.

“I asked you what you want, bitch. Money? Is ten bucks enough?” She started fishing around in her genuine Anjelino bag.

“You’re already outed,” I said as I disappeared into one of the stalls. “Anyone can see you have pimples.”

I didn’t even flinch when her rubber hairbrush slammed into my stall door. And I admit I checked the floor for a ten-spot after she left. Worst of all, dear Blogary, it crossed my mind that there WAS something I wanted from Tundra. But there were better ways to get it than zit blackmail.

Linguista said...

Tuesday, January 5th , 2010
The Universe hates me!

Trip over your shoe laces in a gym full of students: that’s an accident. Trip over your shoelaces and spill your orange juice all over Kirsten Campbell, resulting in Devon Graham, only the sexiest 15-year old on the planet, drying her of with her handkerchief, and then sitting with her and giggling for the rest of the lunch hour: that’s the Cosmos asking you politely to die.
I thought the day was going well enough too. I got the right answer when Mr. Jackson called on me in class. I got a B- on my History report. AND I managed not to castrate or decapitate anyone with my lack of coordination in gym class.
So I was flying pretty high by lunch. Until my stupid laces got in the way. And then it all fell apart. Me, standing there, dumbstruck, instead of offering to help. Kirsten, looking all pouty and on the brink of tears. Devon, being Mr. Debonair Gentleman of the Millenium and rushing in to save the damsel in distress.
Of all the people to be standing right there. Couldn’t Zitmeister Zack have helped her? Or Rob the Blob? They’re perfectly nice guys.
But no.
It had to be Devon.
The Universe hates me.

J.T. Wilbanks said...

March 20

Winter has never been my season, day when icy stalactites form on my heart. The weather is so nice during the other, more likable seasons. The air is so moist and polluted in this town, the oxygen so heavy when the cold clings to it that it becomes a weight on my lungs. Being young and naïve makes it hard enough to breathe with out Jack Frost breathing down my neck.

Every year since I was small I’ve dreaded the first freeze, the one that kills the trees and leaves and paints the world in gray smog – every year before this one. For the first time in my life the cold has eluded me. What changed this past winter from a silver snowed nightmare to a dream coated in syrup and honey? The answer is easy; I didn’t have a boy like you to hold my hand in the stolen moments of the day, I didn’t have someone whose kiss could blow away the cool winds that slash at my soul.

We’ve only been seeing each other since November, but I feel like you’ve been an element in my life since the beginning. Is this what true love feels like? Or is this only the happy buzz of my first love? I doubt I could fathom the answer with my 3.0, perhaps if I had a 3.5.

You are like the brightest bird of summer, from the multi-colored locks that waterfall to your shoulders to the island music on your Ipod. Even the touch of your skin reminds me of playing soccer in June, shooting fireworks in July, or taking a midnight swim in the prime of August. I hope you’ll be there on America’s Birthday to watch the glowing colors explode over the river to keep my heart warm, even as the doggy heat of southern night coxes the sweet sweat from our skin.

I never dreamt I could be looked at that way you look at me – kissed the way you kiss me – or loved so deeply in the way only you love me. When I’m near to you I feel like a bird of the sun too, I’ve just been buried under the snow, afraid to shake the frigid dust off and fly. I never thought I could feel this strong.

I’m praying to whoever’s listening up in the stars, to let me keep him, so that his love can transform all of my snow storms into sunshowers, and so that I can become the bird of summer I’ve always been.

Maybe one day, when our feathers are gray, I’ll give you this letter and then you’ll know how much you’ve always meant to me. But for now, it will remain in my journal until that day – after many summers have pasted us by.

I love you,

-Winter boy no more

laurel said...

October 12

My parents’ bedroom door hasn’t opened in two weeks. I know Mom is slipping in and out somehow, going about the business of pretending the shadow back there is nothing, nothing at all to be concerned about. Work, meals, laundry. Wash, rinse, repeat.

This morning before school, I lingered outside the door, listening hard for voices. For some sign it would all be over soon. That our friend lithium had returned, exalted every valley and made every mountain low. But Mom murmured alone. No sound came from him—-the one whose kidneys nearly failed, detoxing at the bottom of his well of loneliness.

Part of me wanted to throw open the door and let in some air. Sit on the bed and talk and talk and talk until my tales of AP History and marching band and boys built a bland ladder of safety Dad could climb out of his hole. Another part of me was sure that opening the door would take me into the heart of a nightmare. Instead of a bed, I’d find a thousand stairways leading to nowhere good. Instead of a sad father, I’d find a manical mime, silently leering. Eager for mischief.

We had mischief enough before the door closed. For days the endless whine of Dad’s chain saw carved deep into our grove of poplars. Three, five, six trunks thudded to the ground, shivered and went still.

Mom silently sipped her tea on the back deck that day. Watching. Gripping the mug white-knuckled. Better to let him cut and cut and cut than say “stop!”, say “no!” and have that ripping blade turn on you. It’ll end. It’s just trees. Still, I’d seen her gather all the ammo for the hunting rifle, pop it in her purse and head to the neighbor’s.

This morning I walked a half mile to a different bus stop and rode with thumb-sucking first graders. Anything to escape Paul Goodrich and his goon squad pointing out the window at our ruined yard again, tossing out the usual taunts: What kind of freaking loon cuts down that many trees and just leaves them there?

When Mark met me at my locker, he kissed me long enough to notice the peanut butter smell in my hair. I told him it was a new home remedy for split ends. Because what kind of freaking loon would actually choose to ride the kiddie bus?

Myrna Foster said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
deltay said...

Henry –

Some days I wish you were a dragonfly. I wish you were a dragonfly because I want to hurt you, I want to make you feel pain, I want to utterly decimate you. I would grow my fingernails long and clutch your wings between them, digging the edges of the nails into the thin, gossamer material. Fragile. I would then slowly – slowly, to savour the satisfaction – slowly pull my hands apart like they were same poled magnets repelling each other. I would tear you from limb to limb, and prolong the excruciating agony for as long as I can. Then I would crunch your tail between my thumb and middle finger – you know why the middle finger – so that you can’t escape, and then – bam! Squish you flat with my other palm.

You don’t deserve to be called my “father” anymore – you’ve never been him, and iPhones will fall from the sky for free before you ever are him. But you know what’s the most pathetic part of all this? I wish you were him. I wish you could be him, even more than I wish for a free iPhone to just fall into my lap. And then disgust and abhorrence fills me to think that I’d even contemplated letting you back into my life.

Do you even realize how messed up my life is because of you? Sometimes I want to pretend that you don’t know, and that somewhere in that bleak, bleak heart of yours, you have a soft spot for me. The rational part of my mind knows that’s nothing but a lie though. Clearly, you don’t give a shit.

Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called Mom and me last night. The first time we’ve heard form you in about half a year now. And what was your not-so-surprising reason for calling? You got in a bar fight, you’re on the run, and you needed cash. And even though neither of us said it out loud, both Mom and I knew that you were drunk or high, or maybe even both. But by now, you probably don’t even remember doing that. And you’ll never read this letter, because you don’t deserve to know the full impact of your life on mine.

Last weekend, Mom took me to the mall and I saw some hot guys from school. And you know what I immediately did, almost subconsciously? I ran and tried to hide inconspicuously in the closest spot possible. Which happened to be a rack of old granny cardigans and gingham dresses on clearance. You know what else? I’m seventeen years old, about to graduate high school, and I’ve still never been kissed. You know why I’m such a late bloomer? Because I grew up without gender balance. Basically, I don’t know how to talk to guys. Every time I try, all I can do is gurgle incoherently.

You don’t deserve to have me care anymore.

Screw you, Henry.

Screw you, stranger.

Definitely not my father.

Karen said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Susan Quinn said...

Dear Diary,

Today I told a lie. And that thing inside me died.

It wasn't the Big Lie, that no one ever asks me to tell. They still don’t know what happened to L. I'd lie like crazy about that night, if anyone thought to ask me. No one should have to know that kind of ugliness. I wish I could bleach it out of my brain.

No, the lie I told today was just a teeny tiny lie compared to the Lie That Must Be Told. Jay asked if I liked Mark. I told him no. I knew Mark would find out. I knew Jay would tell Lisa who would tell Kim who would whisper it to Mark in that nasty way of hers. God, she's such a b*tch. But a reliable b*tch. When a lie needs to be told.

So, today, Mark found out that I didn't like him. Didn't want him. Didn't need him like I needed air. And a small part of me, just under my ribs, died. I can feel it, sitting there, black and crusty and dead. Now Mark is safe and I don't feel anything there, in that spot that used to tell me I was alive. I sort of miss the pain already.

Kind of like L.

Jason said...

To: Michelle, because of whom my heart beats.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about this—too much time. And as usual, I’m late. Just like I was to hold you in my arms, kiss you and on that fateful day, save you.

Of course I didn’t forget the time I was late for the dance. How could I forget any moment I spent with you, let alone this one? I can almost see you pale and shivering beneath the overcast moon, waiting for me. The moon hung in the clear night sky with barely any clouds to keep it warm just like that silk dress did nothing to protect you from the December air. I ran as fast as I could, and you know how fast I am, but it was too late because you were already frozen stiff. Even still, when your eyes finally held me, you smiled through chattering teeth and ran into my arms.

Some sadistic part of me loved holding your trembling body against my throbbing chest literally melting in my arms. As if this was almost worth being late—that standing you up was worth having you in my arms. What a masochist.

I will never again say it was worth it, that it was worth knowing you, loving you, and holding you in my arms. Because it’s the reason you’re gone. Now I know, if I knew I would’ve abandoned you in the cold, I wouldn’t have been late. I would’ve never come.

Do you remember when you were lying on that bleach-ridden white bed, forcing your shaking hands to caress my face? Why did you have to tell me it was going to be okay, that they found a cure and that we could finally be together? I should’ve snatched your hand before its coldness could meet my face and convince me—before it could light a tiny fire of hope that we could have our chance at a happily ever after. I should’ve held your hand and begged you to stop. I should’ve told you I didn’t want a cure, that I didn’t even want you anymore. I should’ve lied and left you when I still had the chance. Now it’s too late.

None of this matters anymore because you’re forever left in the cold. I... I left you there.

This isn’t about forgiveness. I could never ask you for that.
This is what I should’ve said that night while holding your shivering body in my arms. It is what I should’ve said when your pale hand caressed my face—a belated I love you.

This heart will always belong to you
From: Your Jason

Kristan said...

Dear Diary,

Two minutes never felt so long.

While I sit on the toilet to wait (with the lid down, of course) I can’t help thinking of all the ways my life could be ended by a mere mathematical symbol. In two minutes, I’ll either see a plus or a minus. Suddenly tomorrow’s calculus test doesn’t seem so intimidating.

If it’s a minus sign, my mother will kill me. And if she doesn’t kill me, she’ll definitely disown me. She’ll cut me out of every photo, throw away all my medals and straight-A report cards, and never speak my name again. She won’t be sad about it either, because a person can’t be sad about someone who never existed. She’s very practical that way.

Madeline would become an only child at home, and the pregnant girl’s little sister at school. Thank goodness she has such a good group of friends. But she’ll still have to face a few snide remarks, jeers from the people who are jealous of the perfect life they think I lead. If anyone can handle that, it’s Maddy. I’m just sorry to be the one putting her in that position.

And then there’s Garrett... How should I tell him? What will he say? What will he do? In a perfect world, he’d hug me and kiss me and tell me everything will be okay. But obviously this world is far from perfect.

If I’m being realistic, Garrett will probably just freak out and yell at me. And why shouldn’t he? This will ruin eighteen years of his hard work. Valedictorian, scholarships, MIT… To lose that would be to lose everything. How could I have been so stupid, to let him risk his whole future, and for what? Sex?

Oh geez, time’s up. I can’t look. But I have to.

I’ll give it thirty more seconds, just to be sure.

Please, Diary, please let it be a minus.


Myrna Foster said...

I had my first cross country meet at a park in Vegas today. On the way in, Rooster slept in the seat behind mine. At least, I thought he was sleeping until I heard paper rustling. I looked back. He sat with his back to the window, a notebook propped up by his knees. He looked up from whatever he was writing and smiled at me. I turned around, embarrassed he'd caught me staring. The paper behind me rustled every now and then, jolting me out of the book I was reading. Finally, I blocked it out and lost myself in the story.

The course we ran was all grass and sidewalk—super easy. I knew I'd done well. Rooster met me at the finish line with a cup of water, and I asked him how I'd placed. He told me I'd placed second. I've never placed second before. I ran a 16:28, but the course was only 2.7 miles. I knew he'd gotten a good start and that I hadn't passed him, so it was safe to ask how he'd done. I didn't even noticed Rat Tail hovering until he laughed.

“How did he do?” Rat Tail said. “He won. I'd be crowing, man. What the heck? I'm crowing for you!” And then he did.

Rooster grabbed him and put his hand over Rat Tail's mouth. “Shh, don't do that. Please, don't do that.”

I knew he was talking to Rat Tail, but they were both looking at me. And from what I could still see of Rat Tail's face, Rooster was in for some serious teasing. He let Rat Tail go, and their coach came over and lectured the wrong person. It went something like this.

Coach: You ran a fine race, Rooster, but we do NOT crow when we win. Do you understand?

Rooster: Yes, sir.

Rat Tail laughed like a maniac.

Rooster sat behind me again on the way home. When I picked up my book, I found a folded paper in it.

The locker wisp,
it waits,
books, paper, pencils.
What have you touched?
It holds the door shut
to keep you

Don't be afraid.
It lurks,
never leaping,
never speaking,
wishing it were
a person too
way past

I read it over three or four times, trying to figure out if it meant something beyond describing the woes of an imaginary wisp, apparently living in my locker. The poem wasn't signed. I thought--I hoped--Rooster had written it, but when I turned to ask him about it, he was already asleep.

Penang said...

July 6th

I hate her! I fucking hate her! I don't understand what Dad sees in her. Maybe it's her fake boobs, or the way she walks around with her ass hanging half out. She always ruins everything. I was supposed to go camping with Mike this weekend and she told Dad she didn't think it was a good idea. That I hadn't been holding up my end of our agreement. Dad said I only had to do the laundry and dishes, now she's saying I have to do all this other crap. It's like I'm living in some Cinderella tale and she's the evil stepmother.

Dad keeps saying I just need to get to know her, that if I gave her a chance I'd like her. What a joke! I'm not supposed to argue with her? I can't have a friggin' opinion of my own? Most of the time I ignore her but this just pisses me off. The only reason she doesn't want me to go is because she needs a babysitter for her brat, so she and Dad can go to some dinner party.

I can't believe Dad is going to let her do this. It's so not fair. Mike and I have been planning this trip for weeks, ever since I got back, now I'm going to be trapped here. Again. Well, if she thought I was going to let her tell me what to do, then she's got another thing coming. I already called Mike. I'm going camping. I don't care what Dad said. She isn't going to spoil my summer.

Mary keeps telling me to keep my mouth shut and the bitch will forget I'm there. But Mary doesn't understand. She's never had to live with her.

Twenty-one days and then I'd be outta here. The chance of having to see her again was pretty much zero. She's Dad's fourth wife in ten years. Then the bitch would be gone.

Kristen said...

Dear Sara,
         You really piss me off. Seriously, you had it all, and you threw it away. What’s wrong with you? Why did you do it? You were Mom’s favorite. I know what you’d say, that she loves me too, even if it’s hard for her to show it. Whatever. We both know that’s a lie. We may both be mistakes, but you were the one Mom wanted, from the man she wanted, from the life she wanted. I was just some after-effect of her wayward affair with an irresponsible loser, remember?
         I’m sorry, sis. I know you can’t help all that and you were always kind to me before you left. But you did leave. You were my only friend… How could you? You abandoned me for that creepy boarding school, and now you’ve abandoned me in life too. Why, sis? Why? How could you go from little miss sunshine to hanging yourself? I couldn’t believe it, but then they sent home the body with the imprint of the rope still on your neck… Mom screamed at me at the funeral for touching the grooves in your neck, but I couldn’t help myself! I had to touch it to know it was real! I don’t get it! WHY!?!?
         Well, it’s just me back home now. Me and mom. Me and somebody who couldn’t care less that I’m alive now that you’re gone. At least before she would listen when you reminded her about me. Don’t lie. I know you picked out all the gifts she got me. I know you’re the reason that the neighbors gave me art supplies. They don’t anymore. My birthday was last week too… Not a word was said. I’m going crazy here, and I’m going crazy not knowing why you did it. Sara, why? They won’t tell us anything! They said it’s confidential, so all we got was this little message… Sara Jones, dead two weeks before her eighteenth birthday due to suicide. That was it! You shouldn’t have gone to that school! We could have been happy here… and I know not everything’s right, and they bothered you too sometimes, but at least I wasn’t alone then. I hate you for leaving me, Sara.
         Well, I’ll get my revenge. I’ve applied to your creepy school. I’m leaving Mom. I’m leaving this damned town behind, and I’m going to start a new life there like you did, chase down everyone who knew you, and figure out what the hell happened if it’s the last thing I do. You chose this place that drove you to suicide over me, right? I at least deserve to know what’s so important about it, and if it’s awful, I will curse you the rest of my life. Shoot, maybe you had the right idea, maybe I should just end it too and get it over with. I can’t though… not till I know, Sara. I need to know why!

I love you and I hate you,

Tina DC Hayes said...

Dear Diary,

Brett Lansky asked me to go out with him this weekend. OMG, such a babe! Can't wait for Saturday to get here.

Note to self: Borrow Tara's red heels to wear to the party with Brett. Make sure Mom picks up my black dress from the cleaners before then, too. He's already seen me in the blue one.

So proud of myself for helping Tara with a major problem. When my BFF's in need, look out, here I come. :) That bitch Megan is putting the moves on Tara's boyfriend again. What a Ho! Any who, Tara cried on my shoulder during Algebra, afraid Miss Skanky Pants might steal Sean away from her. She's been bummed out ever since she saw Megan hanging all over him in the hall yesterday, but now she's thinking about skipping the homecoming dance. Said she might make Sean take her to a movie or something instead, some place Megan isn't flouncing around waving her fake boobs in his face. WTF? We've been planning for that dance, like, forever. It would totally suck without her and I wouldn't have any fun.

That's when I decided to step in. No way I'm letting some hoochie ruin that dance for me and Tara. I hung around after school and just happened to go through the gym during cheer practice. Megan's always drinking those gross energy drinks, the kind with the green lightning bolts on the front of the can. YUCK! That stuff tastes like somebody dissolved Sweet Tarts in rancid lemonade. Antifreeze could only improve the flavor, maybe even give it a little zing. Megan's got a habit of leaving her stuff on the bleachers while she bounces around with her pompoms. I almost stepped on her Prada backpack.

One way or another, I don't think she'll be bothering Sean and Tara any time soon. She didn't even make a face when she finished off the can. Bet she's not feeling so flirty now. Wouldn't surprise me if she tried to screw around with the paramedics in the ambulance, though, knowing her. But really, who cares, so long as she leaves my friend's man alone.

Life is good, Diary. I've got a date with Brett this Saturday, shopping at the mall with Tara on Sunday, and the Homecoming dance in a couple weeks. Maybe I can talk Mom into letting me put Paris Hilton's new perfume on her Macy's card.

Well, that's about it. Gotta go call Tara and ask about those red pumps.

Ta Ta for now.

Carol Anne said...

May 3, 2009

Ok. I got another diary and this time I’m determined to use it. I mean, I can’t remember how many times I've started one. And I also can’t remember how many times I've stopped. Every Christmas I get one from someone. I’m pretty good for a couple weeks, and then I forget, or I realize my life is so boring that writing in it seems totally pathetic Or, I’ll find it six months later and get so freaked out by the weird crap I’ve written in it, that I throw it away so nobody will ever find it! But what’s the point of keeping a diary if your days are always safe and correct and never offensive to anyone? You probably wouldn’t feel the need to write if you had a life like that. You’d probably just walk around looking smug while you volunteered at soup kitchens and crocheted little socks orphan babies in Guatemala. Wait. That was cynical, wasn’t it. Damn! I’m always saying wrong stuff like that. It’s not that I think there’s anything WRONG with volunteering or helping kids in Guatemala or wherever. I guess it just makes me think of friggin' Sarah Charles. Everyone thinks she’s awesome, just because she lives on a big organic farm and gives talks at other schools about how to be more environmentally aware. But ever since I saw that snap show she pulled when the newspaper chose that gross photograph of her for the “Community Action” feature, I’ve never been that impressed. I prefer to worship Jason Delaney. Not just because he’s totally hot, but because he goes out in the dark at the end of March, just after the frogs wake up, to help them cross the street to the pond beside his house. He’ll actually stop traffic so that they don’t get smooshed. He's like some amphibious traffic cop or something. I happen to know this because I’ve seen him do it when I’ve stayed over at Dad’s. He doesn’t tell anyone. He just does it. Because, we, I guess he really likes frogs.

Carol Anne said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Carol Anne said...

May 3, 2009

Ok. I got another diary and this time I’m determined to use it. I mean, I can’t remember how many times I've started one. And I also can’t remember how many times I've stopped. Every Christmas I get one from someone. I’m pretty good for a couple weeks, and then I forget, or I realize my life is so boring that writing in it seems totally pathetic Or, I’ll find it six months later and get so freaked out by the weird crap I’ve written in it, that I throw it away so nobody will ever find it! But what’s the point of keeping a diary if your days are always safe and correct and never offensive to anyone? You probably wouldn’t feel the need to write if you had a life like that. You’d probably just walk around looking smug while you volunteered at soup kitchens and crocheted little socks orphan babies in Guatemala. Wait. That was cynical, wasn’t it. Damn! I’m always saying wrong stuff like that. It’s not that I think there’s anything WRONG with volunteering or helping kids in Guatemala or wherever. I guess it just makes me think of friggin' Sarah Charles. Everyone thinks she’s awesome, just because she lives on a big organic farm and gives talks at other schools about how to be more environmentally aware. But ever since I saw that snap show she pulled when the newspaper chose that gross photograph of her for the “Community Action” feature, I’ve never been that impressed. I prefer to worship Jason Delaney. Not just because he’s totally hot, but because he goes out in the dark at the end of March, just after the frogs wake up, to help them cross the street to the pond beside his house. He’ll actually stop traffic so that they don’t get smooshed. He's like some amphibious traffic cop or something. I happen to know this because I’ve seen him do it when I’ve stayed over at Dad’s. He doesn’t tell anyone. He just does it. Because, well, I guess he really likes frogs.

bfav said...

Friday, February 14th.
I’m making it official.
I’m cursed. I didn’t get it from a nasty stepmom, fairy god-thing, or even a four-eyed boy with a wicked scar. I don’t know where or how, but it’s real. I’ve had it my whole life and it sucks to be me.

It started the day I was born, Valentine’s Day. You know, I actually blame my mom for it. I think she gave it to me when she named me. She thought it would be sooooo cute to name me Valentine, (duh) because I was the best Valentine’s gift ever. Bleh. I hate my name. It makes me want to puke unicorn glitter.

Valentine’s Day is a wretched day to have a birthday. My parents are always too busy to give me a proper birthday because they’re planning some romantic evening which, until I was twelve, meant having Lisa Bunt as a babysitter. She was the worst. On my ninth birthday, she put me and my brothers to bed at 6pm. 6PM!! So she could eat my birthday ice cream and talk to her turd boyfriend on the phone. What kid goes to bed at 6pm on their birthday? Kids with a birthday curse. Hello, that’s me.

On my twelfth birthday, my brother Liam broke his arm just before my party. My mom had to cancel the party so she could take Liam to the ER. And the very next year, Luke broke his arm during my party. Bad awful terrible things happen on my birthday. Someone always cries or throws up. And I generally go to bed miserable.

Last year I turned sixteen. It’s supposed to be platinum, right? Nope. It was my super sweet suck fest. I didn’t get a party or a car or a boy—just a phone and a personalized heart keychain with keys to the minivan. I sat at home with my brothers and watched time pass.

Today, I just want to get through it. I have low expectations. I know the day’s cursed.

Everett Dean just looked at me and nodded. He’s perfection. Why is he dating Gwen Stevens? They’re probably going to the dance tonight. Of which no one has asked me…I’m cursed.

Oh crap on a crap cracker. Mr. Frosh almost caught me. I better go. May I (and anyone around me) survive the day.

Posted by Val at 8:13am

Comments: 4

JediRyan said…
You could do better than Everett Dean.
Posted February 14, 8:30am

Bryn said…
Ryan! You blog-hacking scab. This is a private blog for me and Val. If you say anything to anyone, you’re dead.

Val, you’re not cursed. We’ll do something fun after work tonight.
Posted February 14, 8:31am

JediRyan said…
There’s a lot of juicy stuff on this blog. The only way I’ll stay quiet is if Val goes to the Valentine’s dance with me tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7pm.
Posted February 14, 8:35am

Val said…
I’m doomed.
Posted February 14, 8: 36am

Cory M said...

It’s officially official. My sister is retarded and I am never wearing green again. Goodbye cute H&M top. Goodbye green Juicy sweats. Goodbye green headband. Goodbye trying to be hot and popular. I’m done. I give up. I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I should just go Goth and wear all black. Keep my skin pasty white and dye my hair dark. Then no one could walk around and tease me that I was trying too hard or had a crush on Jake, because no one would want to talk to me. My parents would probably like that. Me with no friends, no boyfriends. Just me alone in my room, studying like a good girl should. God, why does my sister have to be so stupid? Couldn’t she have just kept her little eight-year old lips sealed? Who asks their mom if their sister’s horny anyway? Yeah, that’s right, my sister asked my mom this morning at breakfast, “is Abigail horny?”
I yelled at her, “You don’t even know what that means.”
But she came back with: “I do too. You and Dawn said that if you wear green on Thursdays it means you’re horny. And it’s Thursday and you’re wearing green. So you must be horny!”
My mom started laughing when she saw that I was pretty much drenched in green, then asked, “So, who’s the lucky boy?”
“No one. I was just about to change anyway.”
“No. You look cute, don’t.”
But I stomped upstairs and changed everything I had on. I couldn’t let my mom think that I was horny or trying to impress anyone. Even though I was. Yesterday, Jake had told Emily who told Dawn who then told me that he thought I was cute. Today was supposed to be the day that I made my big move. I was going to accidentally bump into him in the hall so that my books would fall from my arms, and my pens would scatter all over the floor. Jake, of course, being the sweetie that he is would offer to help me pick them up. Then as we both bent down to gather my last few pencils our hands would graze and he’d comment on my green top. I’d smile and he’d know what it meant. Then he’d kiss me right there, ask me to go out with him, and we’d be the “it” couple of the seventh grade. Of course, none of that happened, because my dumb sister ruined it all and I changed my outfit. And the plan was destroyed. And now Emily is going out with Jake. Why? Because he liked her cheesy green skirt from the GAP. Does anyone who’s anyone even shop at that store anymore? Seriously. It’s official. My sister’s retarded and I’m going to grow old and die alone.

Christina Mercer said...

These last days of school suck. Every time I get off the bus, it’s the same thing with Gina. I wish she would ease up on me with the partying. If I miss school one more day before graduation, I won’t pass. I think she’d like to see me forced to go to summer school while she slides by with her GED. But, I have to finish, be the only one in my ridiculous family to graduate high school. Then I’ll treat myself one last time. I’ll go back to that faraway land with pink skies and yellow trees, orange waters, and purple bees, clouds of green spreading burgundy rain, where I can fly without shame. Then it’s quits for me for good, and Gina and all the rest can take a long stroll off a cliff. Come August, I’ll have access to my trust fund. Yes! At least Dad left something behind when he died, and Mom won’t see a dime of it. She and her ghetto boyfriend can rot together for all I care. I’m going far away, as far as the money will take me, to the other end of the world, where nobody will follow, where I’ll finally be free--
Shit! Gran’s screaming for another morphine shot, gotta go.

Kim W said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Kim W said...

Dear Diary,

Well, I did it. I know months of debate I should be more excited, but really I was expecting more. I thought when I walked around school today people would notice there was something different about me, something they couldn’t quite put their finger on, but no one did. Just another day. I wanted to tell someone. Not a shouting from the rooftop kind of thing, but a quiet whisper in the darkness. That’s what I get from not making friends here. Why mom and dad pulled me out of Oak High to put me in private school I’ll never understand and the collars on the polo shirts make my neck itch.

I convinced Lee to sneak over to my place to do it. His posters creep me out. Thousands of girls in bikinis grinning at us as his cold hands slide up my shirt. I’d rather have my unicorn wallpaper, thank you very much. Two years of dating and my parents never would let him in my room, probably for good reason now. I hid my stuffed animals too. This wasn’t supposed to be a childish moment, but I never felt more like a little kid. I made Lee shut out the lights. I want to be a few pounds thinner before he actually sees me all of me. Maybe just two or three. I think that would be enough.

We made sure to lay down plenty of towels. I did a lot of research, but there wasn’t any blood. But there was pain! It wasn’t as horrible as I was expecting, more like being pinched from the inside. I didn’t like that. In fact, I didn’t like any of it. It was awkward and messy. I was afraid there might be a stain but Lee said it would come out. He wants to try again. Will it always be as strange as last night? Let me tell you, it was nothing like they make it seem on Sex and the City. What a load of crap that is. And it was so short! I felt jipped. All that waiting, all that worrying, pages and pages, and it only took a few minutes. It doesn’t seem like anything to really fret about. I keep waiting for regret to sink in, to realize I’ve done something stupid but that hasn’t happened yet.

Honestly, I wanted something to happen. Something to wake me up, change my life, the world to notice me, but it was just another night in my bed. Lee didn’t even need to be there. Maybe I’ll cut my hair really short. Or maybe I’ll take down the unicorns.

- Sarah

Margie Senechal said...

January 16, 2016
According to Mom, I should’ve been journaling about our life in the basement all along, recording it all for posterity, ala Anne Frank. But until today I had nothing to say.
Today I have something worth remembering.
Today Dad brought Nate Foster home. I think he did it out of instinct and I think there’s a part of him that already regrets it. It’s not that Dad doesn’t like Nate, he does. Or he did, when we knew him before the ice.
The ice. That’s how we measure our lives now, before the ice and after the ice.
Before the ice we lived in the house above our basement and Nate lived across the street with his mother. Before the ice Nate barely knew I was alive. Now he’s sleeping in my bed, fighting for his life.
Dad found him curled up fetal-like in the corner of his house, hypothermic and dying. I always thought he’d died in the great ice storm. I pretty much think everyone has died. That’s the way it feels most of the time. In two years I haven’t seen anyone except my parents. There’s no television, no radio, no computer service. Without electricity, we have lost all forms of communication. Dad says it doesn’t matter. If the great ice buried us in the Pacific Northwest, then the eastern seaboard is non-existent.
Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone important left, like movie stars or the president.
Every once in a while, Dad brings stories home of the outside that he gathers during his foraging. Like how the first fatalities were burned in bonfires to stave off disease. And how now, the dead are left to the elements.
But, this time, instead of telling us a story, he brought someone to our home, our sanctuary.

I can’t sleep. How horrible would it be to fall asleep and wake up and find Nate dead next to me? That’s the thought keeping me awake.
If Nate’s still alive, how many other survivors are out there. I always thought we survived because Dad was prepared. But how did someone like Nate survive? Luck?
He’s coughing now. I wonder if that’s a good thing. At least I don’t have to get the mirror out every few minutes. I think he’s running a fever. If he gets any warmer, I’ll wake Mom up. Am I being selfish in wanting to be the one Nate sees when he first wakes up?
Before the ice, I had a crush on Nate. One time I was at the bus stop and the kids were making fun of Dad, calling him a whack job and some other names. And I wanted nothing more than to be out of there when Nate pulled up in his car. “Ainsley,” he called. “Hop in.” He leaned over and opened the passenger door for me. Me! That was the best ride ever.
Now, it’s my turn to rescue him.

Catherine M. said...

Journal - January 5, 2010, 11:15 PM

He looked at me today. Really looked at me - straight into my eyes. Direct contact. Abby said I was crazy, that of course he had to look at me. How can you be lab partners with someone and not look at each other? I think she’s jealous.

I know we’ve been best friends since first grade, ever since we made that spit pact and promised to protect each other from any other bullies. Who knew first graders could be so mean, but that twit Shelly was a real pain in the ass. Always grabbing my lunch and taking a bite before the teacher could stop her. Always pushing me down in the sandbox and telling me to “eat sand, poopy-head.” When Abby dumped a bucket of wet sand on Shelly’s hair - that was pure friendship right there. From that day on, it’s been me and Abby. Taking care of each other, looking out for each other. Maybe Abby more than me given I’m such a weak-ass. But still, we’re close. But now, I think she’s just wishing he would look at her like that.

God, who wouldn’t want that? He’s so friggin’ hot. Sure, he’s captain of the soccer team and so naturally he’s buff times ten. But it’s those damn eyes of his that do it. So, I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what shade of blue. Today in art class, I saw the exact same color. Cerulean. Maybe not the exact same shade - how could anything else look as perfectly blue as those eyes?

I could look in those eyes forever. I could look in those eyes and tell him anything. I think I could almost tell him how I feel. Abby said that would be pure idiocy. She said he either wouldn’t believe me, or he’d run so fast and never get within two feet of me again. And that would be that. This way, she told me, you can admire him up close. Talk to him, get to know him....but tell him how you feel and it’s over and done.

I know she’s right. I do. But I don’t think I can take it much longer. It was fine when we were just in the same class or when I cheered him on during the soccer games. Now that we’re lab partners - oh, God. I just can’t stand it. Why’d stupid Shelly have to go and get knocked up? If she could’ve just keep her damn legs closed, she’d still be in school and still be his lab partner. I’d be stuck on my own in chem lab, and I’d never have to say more than five words to him. The only consolation - at least he wasn’t the one to get Shelly pregnant. Oh, God - what if it was him? Who knows with Shelly. It’s a wonder she can even walk - her legs are probably permanently spread open.

No way it’d be him. He has better taste. Not that I’ve seen him with anyone. The usual hags clamor around him after the game or hang out near his locker, but he never leaves with any of them. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him hanging out with any girl. Not like a girlfriend, I mean. Huh, that’s interesting - I wonder...

Oh, crap - my Mom’s onto me. Must’ve seeen my penlight on. Gotta go.



Glamour177 said...

Dear Diary,
Hmm, first entry. I am scared to put this on paper. It might make it too real. I can sum up what is on my mind in one statement: Vili Fualaau ain’t got nothing on me.
I have always known I was different. When my friends started becoming boy-obsessed, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand being attracted to the musky scent of a boy, the muscular physique, the cropped hair. I have always loved the curves of a woman, the floral scent of her long hair.
I like blondes.
When I joined cheerleading, Mom was so excited. If she only knew, if anyone only knew, that I did it to be around Amanda…I shudder to think of what would happen to me.
But Amanda is last year’s news. I did something awful. Something I know I never should have. But when you love someone, is there anything that can stop you?
Miss Anderosso. Holy shit! I have never seen a more beautiful woman. I know! A teacher?! But you don’t understand, no one does. She is 25. In the long run, eight years isn’t bad. I mean, Dad is ten years older than Mom!
And she likes girls too. Everyone knows she likes girls because she had a girlfriend. She’s been so openly depressed since they broke up. It was all over school that the hot lesbo teacher was available. Some of the dumbass jocks would talk about her and bet on which one of them would “turn her”.
I knew better. I knew that I would have her. I always get what I want.
Three days ago, after class, I came to her and asked her to look at my paper. I wrote about her. I didn’t use her name or anything. I wrote about a female student in love with her female teacher. I described her to a T. She knew.
I wrote about how much Student wanted Teacher. About how much she wanted to take Teacher’s hurt away. How beautiful Teacher was to Student. About how Student would be home alone for the weekend. How Student would be there for Teacher if she needed her.
I put my address on the back of the paper.
It is Saturday night and I am waiting for her. I am craving her. If she doesn’t come, I won’t go back to school on Monday. It will be too humiliating to have to sit in her class! But I know she wants me too! I see how she looks at me and I know she likes how I look. Even Jordan Elias constantly pesters me about how Miss Anderosso has the hots for me. If stupid Jordan can see it, then I know it isn’t my imagination!
She has to come tonight! God, it is 9:48 at night. Is she coming? Jesus, all I want is her. Is it ok to pray for someone to be yours?
Oh. My. God.
She came.
She’s here.

Kristen said...

There are people who blaze through your life like a comet, with such a bright light that they’re all you can see. But once they leave your orbit, all you are is burned. I’ve known for a long time that my mom is one of those people, which is why I’ve been dreading parent’s weekend here at boarding school. And sure enough, I was right on the money. All the goodwill that has taken me so long to build up, scorched, in one day.

It’s not that she meant to ruin things for me, she never does. She’s like cotton candy, all sweet and no substance, just giggles and gossip. She brought me this gauzy, frilly pink dress that she said would look "just darling" on me. I don't think she fully gets that her breakdancing daughter who loves hip-hop is NEVER going to wear that monstrosity. I try to tell her that, but she just gets this annoying little smile on her face and says "never say never!" I think she seriously believes that one day I will wake up singing with birds twittering around my head and decide that TODAY is the day I will wear pink frills and go skipping home to flirt with boys.

But honestly, the clothes were just the tip of the iceberg that sank my social life like it was the Titanic. At the party at the end of the weekend, my mom got a little wasted. She started dancing – let’s just say “teasingly” – with several of my teachers and even a couple of the guys in my class. It was then that I realized that time, measured in seconds and minutes and hours, doesn’t exist. Because even though the clock said that party was only a couple hours, I swear it lasted for a damn eternity. Everyone was capturing her little performance on their cell phones, and the moment has now been immortalized in multiple YouTube clips (1013 hits and counting!).

I guess all anyone wants is to be first in someone’s life, not to have to share the #1 position with anyone else. You’d think you might be that person to your parents, at least, but mom’s always going to be her own #1. At least now the embarrassment is over – until next year. And no matter how painful something is, you learn from it. And usually, the more painful it is, the more you learn. At this rate I’ll have my Ph.D. in Humiliation by the time I graduate.

saskia said...


I’ve decided I’ve got to write it all down. Everything that’s happened and what is happening now, everyday, everything. I think that’s the only way I can hold myself together because I am starting to feel like I am dreaming all this, or hallucinating it, or something. I feel like I am in another world or in this world but removed in some other reality. Ok stop this.

I’m just going to put down what happened.

I got home late from school because I was playing basketball with the guys. It was after dark about a week ago. No, it was exactly five days ago on Thursday November twelfth. I should make it exactly like you would tell the police. I guess I may have to tell the police. If I live to tell the police.

Can’t think like that. Go on.

I walked up the path to the door of the house and got my key out, but the door was slightly open and that’s when I noticed that there were no lights on in the house. So I pushed the door and it swung open. A cold breeze swept past me as I took a step inside. I stood there. I felt something was wrong and I realized it was very cold. It had been a warm day outside but the house felt like a refrigerator. Then there was movement and noise from upstairs and someone jogged halfway down the hall stairs and stopped. I was totally freaked. My heart was going faster then I thought was possible and I stood there unable to move.

“Oh, Kevin you scared me. I didn’t realize you were coming home. Of course you would be.”

I recognized my Uncle Ned on the steps in the gloom. I didn’t know he was coming.

“What’s going on?” I asked him. My voice sounded raspy and strange to me.

“We’ve got to get out of here fast”

“Where’s Mom and Dad and Billy?”

“Don’t go upstairs,” he said as he slowly came down the rest of the way.

“Why not? What’s wrong with the lights?” I said as I tried a switch and nothing happened.

He came to me and grabbed my arm leading me back toward the door but I resisted. And then we heard this howl or wolf call. I really can’t say if it was human or animal or metal ripping apart or if it was in my head or out there. But it froze me to the spot. My heart was jumping up my throat. I met my Uncles eyes and saw panic there. Then we both looked back toward the kitchen and through the kitchen window. I don’t know why we both looked at the same moment but there in the window were two gleaming red eyes looking at us. I felt him shoving me out the door.

Shit, someone’s at the hotel room door. It must be him and I can’t let him see this. Later -

Melony said...

I hate my name. How do you shorten a name like mine? Kin? Kins? McKin? They all suck and I hated Kinny by the time I was 10, but I let them keep calling me that till I thought I might stick a pen into my eardrums if I heard it just one more time.

The stupid nickname was ten times worse because I had no boobs until this year. NONE. When you’re too short to ride the “big kid rides” at an amusement park and you have no boobs to speak of a “Y” at the end of your name is like taking two bold red arrows and wearing them on your shoulders with a sign that says: Prepubescent, lame and undesirable.
I stared at his headstone today for like 10 minutes. I didn’t know how to say anything, how to ask him about the latest oddities in my life since he’d left me, how to tell him what I needed to say. Emile Kenneth Sutton, Emile Kenneth Sutton, Emile Kenneth Sutton. His name repeated in my mind over and over. Why can’t I have him back? I want him back!
He called me “Island girl,” which is a joke, I know, but it was his name for me. When you (future children who probably won’t ever exist because no guy wants to date me much less...UGH) imagine “Island girl” what does she look like? I know, a dark-skinned, curvaceous, siren of a thing with dark eyes and obsidian-black waves to her waist, right?

WRONG! My red hair and chalky white skin coupled with the fact that I’m so short and skinny you could fit like 20 hundred of me in a clown car doesn’t fit that description!

And I know he called me that because of my eye color, but still! The ocean in my eyes…how corny is that? Really??

So anyway, I finally did talk to him. If that’s what you call talking to the dead, multicolored leaves lying on the ground in between me and his tombstone. I told him I wasn’t going to open it. Mom doesn’t understand, but I knew he would. So now it’s out there. He knows. It’s beautifully wrapped and it’s the last thing he’ll ever give me. I refuse to tear into it like that cancer tore into him. It’s gonna stay on my shelf forever and always. It’s all I have left of him. He’s dead and it’s not fair cuz I still have to live. It’s crap, but I’m not crying anymore. NO MORE!

Alright Mom’s coming and even though she's the one that keeps telling me I have to keep a journal so my future children and grandchildren can read it (I don't think that will be a good idea even if by some stroke of dumb luck it happens)she won't be thrilled I'm still up for any reason. So, I gotta go to bed.
Todays major points: McKinnley = no boobs, non-island girl and talking to the dead, or more honestly, the ground he’s buried under. Not fabulous…really not.


Angela K. Nickerson said...

You’re right. I’m sleeping around, drinking, smoking pot, doing crack, and cutting myself -- usually simultaneously. That’s why you’re there, holding my diary. Did you even think about opening it? Did you think maybe you are wrong as you read my deepest, darkest secrets? Did you?

Yeah, well, I know your secrets, too.

I hear you panting and moaning in your room. But I know you aren’t getting any. And I know the vibrator and your “erotic stories” are in the bottom drawer of your dresser -- under Dad’s old sweats.

I know all about the vodka bottle in your tall, black boots. And no, I haven’t even taken a sip. But you... well, I also know that you don’t just go to Target to buy pantyhose.

I know Max didn’t just stop over for breakfast and that he never called you again and that he called you “desperate” and “neurotic” when he texted you a week later. Oh, wait! Did I delete that text? So sorry. My mistake. :)

And I know that when Dad died you weren’t sad. Thank goodness for that insurance. How else would you have been able to afford a boob job? Did you think I wouldn’t notice that while I was away at Death Camp you suddenly got a ginormous rack?

And while we are at it: I did it at Death Camp. In between all that my-dad-died-in-9/11 sad crap, I did it. It was fine. And guess what? I’m still getting all A’s. Somehow I don’t think MIT is going to reject me just because I’m not a virgin anymore.

Happy? Did you find what you were looking for? Go get a drink. Heck go get yourself off. Just put my freakin’ diary back where you got it.


Marilyn Peake said...

Dear Diary,

I saw them again tonight. The tall shadowy ones with emerald green skin and staring black eyes. I was out late with the gang. We were just having fun, walking through the park, down toward the edge of the creek where fat rats scattered in every direction as we approached. So strange. During the day, the park’s filled with little kids and teenagers, and water spiders sprint along the cool surface of the babbling creek water. I saw a snake in the long grass on the bank once, but mostly it’s just babbling water and sprinting water spiders, not vermin with long tails and razor-sharp teeth. If rats come out of the darkness along the creek bank at night, who’s to say that visitors with dark intentions don’t pop out from folded dimensions or other worlds in the blackness of night?

I want to ask my friends – maybe Tina or Ricky, or Mike – if they’ve ever seen the shadowy ones. I want to know I’m not going crazy.

After everyone went home, I stood in the backyard listening to the wind rustle through the long hair of the willow trees and tap against loose shingles on the far side of the house. Our house had been haunted once. Or so they say. I don’t believe a word of it. It was never ghosts. It was the green ones, with staring black eyes. They make you feel things you don’t want to feel. Better that it be ghosts.

Of course, Daddy’s taken to the bottle again, and Momma has fits she can’t control. It all started with our move to this house, but it doesn’t seem fair to blame ghosts. We’ve never seen one, just dishes falling off the shelves in the china cabinet, or the day that five windows cracked straight down the middle and hail the size of golf balls tore a hole in our roof. Some expert said we have a poltergeist in our house, and teenagers can attract them. Like it’s all my fault or something.

I don’t think so. I shiver under my thick quilted comforter at night, staring out through the windowpane at the twinkling stars, wondering where they come from.

Tonight, one approached me in the yard. It kind of materialized out of the long swaying willow tree branches. There was a blur. Then it was there. It got inside my head, made me see stuff: machines and numbers. Lots of numbers. Equations went swimming through my head. Not sure what it all means, but I hope I remember them someday. I need those numbers to prove I’m not going insane.

Diary, you should write down the numbers for me. While I sleep.

Mary said...

Thanks for holding this awesome contest. It was great fun rousing my teenage angst that has laid dormant for all these years. Good luck everyone!

My entry:

Dear Diary,

I just don’t get it. What does my mom see in him? I’d like to know because at this point I have no clue. I think I need to get Scooby Doo and the gang to solve the mystery. Maybe it’s as simple as she‘s into fat, chain-smoking losers! Oh let’s no forget alcoholic. So, she’s into fat, chain-smoking, alcoholics. When we moved back to her hometown I had no idea insta-dad was waiting in the shadows. No need to add water to the powdered packet of shit. This crap doesn’t come from a box of Lipton’s instant soup. It has a heartbeat. Take one alcoholic, add a single self-hating divorcee, and don’t forget to mix in her two kids. Voila - you have the recipe - the recipe for bullshit.

I wish he’d get hit by a bus. That would solve all our problems - or at least the biggest one. I could leave party without being completely embarrassed. Who gets out of the car and walks around it (while sporting a greasy wifebeater that barely covers his gut) to let me squeeze into the back seat. It looks like he’s preggers and the baby’s due any day now. LOSER! Oh wait - I forgot. The cherry on the cake of my night is when he does his car walking routine and finishes the event by hacking a slimy loogie onto the ground. I keep waiting for the thing to spout legs and run away. SEROIUSLY? I can’ wait to drive my own car. Once I have my license it’s hello new life and goodbye lard ass. God grant me the serenity to make it ‘till then.

I’m sick of being connected to him. People ask if he’s my dad. Not only no - HELL NO! Just last Saturday a group of boys from school had a party. After a few beers one of them starting making fun of me. He was all like “You ‘re dad busted us for drinking beers at your birthday party.” I told them he wasn’t my dad but they wouldn’t stop. Finally, my best friend told them to F@*K off and leave me alone. They kicked both of us out. It was real fun finding a way home when neither of us had a license or even a car for that matter.

I guess I’ll keep hoping one day I’ll walk through the door and he’ll be gone. I won’t hold my breath but there’s a small chance. Until then I‘ll keep writing to vent my frustration. Otherwise I may be hauled away in a straight jacket. Until next time!

Cheers - Hailey

Pixiewinkle said...

(Written on the last day I can ever show my face in public again.)
Dear Diary,

Would it be too much to ask for the world to open up and swallow me whole? Chloe Campbell can never show her face at Santa Monica High EVER again, not after the debacle today. And J is never going to look my way! Why even bother going back? I knew my parent’s move to sunny California was going to be the death of me.

My morning started off being a potential Best Day Ever- Tammy agreed. At least I still have one friend. It would be so embarrassing sitting at lunch all by myself. So Tammy and I arrived at school before first bell (Yay, score one for us!) and she thought my new pink skirt was adorable, it would totally get J’s attention. God, if I had only known what that attention would be. Shoot me now!

All my morning classes flew by. K flirted with me in Bio, but as funny as he is, I don’t see myself with a jock. Maybe a baseball boy, but not a football player- he’s already losing his neck! SOOO not what I’m looking for. Why even bother looking? My dad will probably get another transfer by the end of the year and I’ll be off to another high school. Just think car Chloe. Your parents bought you a new car to cope with all the “difficulties” of a move. The people here are so beautiful and tanned and did I say beautiful?? I miss my grumpy East coast friends. Okay, back to the topic Chloe.

So Tammy and I had just returned from sneaking off campus to get fruit smoothies, and I had to use the bathroom. I was still in a daze because during English I caught J looking at me at least five times. I was thinking about it as I left the bathroom and didn’t do a “rear check” before leaving (Like I always do-one just never knows). I walked through the Senior Hall towards my locker and was getting a lot of stares and giggles. It didn’t register. Not until I reached my locker.

Fred, the class clown said, “Hey Dan, check out the cute heart panties.”

I thought, “When does a guy ever say the word “panties”?”

Dan said, ”Yeah, gotta love them hearts.” He winked at me and walked off.

Then it hit home. THE PANTIES BEING REFERRED TO WERE MY PANTIES. MY GRANDMA PANTIES WITH PINK HEARTS. My stomach sank as I looked behind me and saw my super-cute skirt tucked into my super-not-so-cute panties, displayed for the whole world to see. Quickly I covered myself and then looked up directly into Jamie’s eyes. Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. Numbness took over. I turned and ran.

L, the girl formerly known as Chloe

Leis Draven said...

Thanks for the contest, Nathan, I look forward to reading all the entries this evening.

My entry is not exactly 'light' reading... but here goes: an excerpt from my eternally-in-progress novel, THE RIVER BETWEEN --

There is no turning back now.

This cluttered room, the tired keepsakes crowding every surface. Mother’s porcelain figurines bear their wounds stoically, unlike myself. Chipped or broken at one time or another, their limbs glued back together with red nail polish, deceptively innocent, they watch me from stiffly starched doilies -- Jana’s darlings, Jana’s eyes. Little boy on his knees reading a prayer book; pale ballerina in a pink tutu, her arms sectioned by thin red scars; the one-eared dog, the dolphins, the mother and child, the glass carp missing a tail fin. The icon of Mary and Jesus. Something sublimely naïve about the way they paint icons, almost two-dimensional, with a skewed perspective or none at all; like child's work. The ray of light radiating from the dove's heart onto Jesus' halo, that is the Holy Spirit, Granny said. But where is God, why isn't He in the picture?

Nothing any of you you can do about it, nothing at all. I'm leaving. And I swear my new life will never know starched doilies and porcelain figurines, I will never crowd it with useless symbols that can be broken.

Must tidy up the room before I go. The least I can do, after all, it's Mother's birthday today.

When she gets home from work I won't be here. Late into the evening she'll worry, and fret; maybe stay up through the night, waiting, not knowing what to do, where to look, where to find me.

Happy Birthday, mother. I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry, really I am.

My reasons for doing what I am about to do are good and solid, but how will you ever know? If I leave in silence you will never understand. You might even blame yourself for driving your daughter away.

And should the unthinkable occur... If we get caught, maybe even killed crossing the border… Ovidiu insisted that I shouldn't say anything. He thinks you cannot be trusted, that you might turn us in to Securitate. But he's wrong, you wouldn't do that? Of course you wouldn't!

Mother, please, you cannot, you must not blame yourself. You need to go on with your life so that I can go on with mine.

I cannot not tell her. Can’t disappear without a trace, she’ll go mad! Even if she wasn’t the greatest mother in the world, she deserves to know the truth, I owe her that much.

I will bare my soul to you, dear mother. This is a me you never took the time to know. Wish I trusted you enough. I wish I loved you more. These words will be my testament, as we may never see each other again.

It is time.

One last look around: my life in a box.

End of my life in a box.

Camilla said...

Dear Judge Matthews,

My mom taught me that nothing in life is handed to you on a silver platter. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always known she struggled daily to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. Despite this, she found small ways to spoil me—a chocolate bar if I cleaned up my room, fairy tale books picked up from a clearance bin or sharing a banana split at our favorite ice cream shop on her rare days off.

All fairy tales came to an end when she caught me sneaking out our last can of food, expired kidney beans, from our cupboard.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“I’m growing a beanstalk.”

“So you’re going to climb up and steal from the giant?”

“Yes, just like Jack did.”

She hugged me. “Sweetheart, there are no such things as giants and beanstalks,” she held up the can. “In this life, all beans are good for is dinner. Listen to me carefully, if you steal from another man then you're just one more hoodlum headed for jail. Just like your father.”

Just like your father.

It’s the dreaded phrase that has followed me from childhood to now. You would think that a boy would be proud to hear it but not me. My mom, aunts and my ex-girlfriend threw these words around in anger to hurt me. Well, I guess they’re right. I’m just like my dad—-17 years old and behind bars with my own baby son crying back at home without me.

This mess all started when I was 12years old. I was embarrassed by everything; my pockmarked skin, my deepening voice and the second hand clothes from my older cousins. I stole t-shirts and jeans. I eventually graduated to electronics and dvds which I could easily resell on the streets. I always made sure that half of the money made its way back to Mom. Life was okay for awhile.

Then my son was born and this money was no longer enough. I couldn’t ask my Mom. She can barely take care of herself. My girlfriend would text me messages; calling me names, branding me another dead beat loser like my dad. That first break in was only supposed to be one time but there was always another rent check to cover or diapers to buy.

My lawyer says you probably won’t have a chance to read this before the sentencing. I just wanted you to know the thug sitting across from you in the courtroom is not just another face or case number. A stupid child made those mistakes but it’s a man now seeking redemption in his place. I want to cross the school stage to accept my diploma; be the son a mother brags about to her friends and the role model my son can look up to. I know I can be that person. I will not be like my father.


J.D. Klousia said...

Dad came home today. It’s been two weeks this time. He just walked in while we were eating breakfast and sat down. He didn’t even say hi. Mom started jumping around like a puppy, but he just acted like none of us were there. I don’t think he’d showered the whole time he was gone either. Where does he go? Mom poured him a cup of coffee and asked what he wanted to eat, as if he’d just gotten back from taking the trash to the curb.

He tried to boss me around, so I called him an asshole – which he is – and he left again. Good. Mom started screaming at me, and now I’m grounded for a month. She won’t even let me see Avatar this weekend, even though I’d planned it weeks ago. Like I care. I’ll just sneak out and see the late show.

School wasn’t much better. Lauren wouldn’t talk to me all day, and I don’t even know what I did to piss her off. Maybe it was because I was on the phone with Ellie when she called last night. All we talked about was music and movies, but Ellie is pretty cool. I wonder if she likes me.

Nicole said...

(Wow, this is a lot of comments! I wonder if you knew just how popular this would be... On the other hand, thanks for the exercise in character development. I do like writing letters from a character's POV, I just often forget to do it. ~ Nicole T)

Dear Annie,

You’ll never believe what happened at Jay’s party. First he was all excited to see me, and then he yelled at Frank for bringing over beer. As if that wasn’t enough -- I mean, Frank hates my guts, right? -- that skank Teresa shows up and hangs all over Jay so I can’t get a word in edgewise. Okay, fine, I can make nice with his sister while he plays host. It’s not like he’s actually my boyfriend.

About the time I decided I should give up and go home, Teresa dumps her soda down my back. She tried to pretend it was an accident, but we both know she meant to do it. Totally ruined my top, too, that cute cropped angora sweater you tease me about being so preppy.

But then, Erin -- the sister -- gets me a new shirt, and it looks even better on me, and when I’m done in the bathroom who do I happen to meet in the hall? Jay. And he was that close to kissing me.

Of course, that’s when my mom called. And of course she found out that there were no parents home.

I am so grounded. But you know what? It was worth it.

Now, however, I’m back at school, listening to Ms. Hanson drone on about math proofs. I could care. This will probably be on the test, but I might just use my tarot deck to tell me what to study.

Oh, I never told you about that, did I. Probably because you think I should never use the deck again. It’s not my fault that you got into a car accident after your tarot reading showed all that doom and gloom. This set really works. I tried it on my last French test, and aced the thing. In French, even. You know how bad my grade was in that class.

Anyway. You probably haven’t changed your mind. Or you’d think I was cheating or something. So I guess I won’t send you this letter. I’ll just have to tell you all about the party next time I visit you at the hospital. I hope you get to come home soon.



elementalmoon said...


I've been reading those self help books, you know the ones that tell a person how to "deal with life" or some other schtick like that? A lot of them go on about getting it all out in the open, but we both know that can't happen, so here we are.

I hate you. I mean, I really, really HATE YOU. You left me. Left without a word. Without even a note. I would have done anything for you and you went anyways. Then you show up again and expect everything to be okay. Like you hadn't been missing, hadn't made any attempt to contact me. Do you know how I felt?

I thought you left because of me, because I wasn't good enough. But I got better. While you were away I practiced harder than ever. I thought if you just came back and I showed you that everything would be okay. And for that I hate you even more.

I hate you for coming back and making me love you again. For making me forgive you. For making me think that my dreams had come true. Because you hurt me again and now I'm all mixed up inside.

I love the brother who played with me, taught me, protected me.
I hate the brother who betrayed me.

But most of all, I hate myself for what you made me into. I showed you how good I'd gotten didn't I? You didn't give me a choice but too.

I can't ever get your blood off my hands.

SilkyD said...

“You’re such a sensitive soul,” mom says in that way only a mom can. “This thing…it’s rare but it happens more than you think.” Really dad? That’s all you’ve got? Sigh emoticon. (Sounds on paper are really hard to do. I miss im’ing.) I know that they’re worried and just want me to be happy again so thanks to their Oprah addiction (yeah dad, I know you watch too), today is Day 1 of my ‘journal therapy’.

It all started innocently enough years ago. Well at least I pretended that it was just some kiddie curiosity about my birth. But you get a little bit of Malbec into mom and her lips get to flappin a lotta bit. “Oh the doctors thought I was having twins but they mis-heard the Ba-Ba bump bump. Ba-Ba bump bump. They thought there were two heartbeats but they could never see another body. And then it was one. One tiny precious heartbeat. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.” And she plants a big Chanel Red #5 smooch on my cheek.

I’m sure that to her it sounded all tender like one of those soppy Hallmark movies. However all I heard was “Oh you were a twin but he died before birth because you ate him.” Boy did that make Christmas dinner just a little weird.

I guess that was when I started fixating on the ‘thing’ my father so (not)eloquently refers to. The twin thing. The parasitic twin thing. I mean how can I not fixate when the word PARASITE is a definitive part of the name? The ‘rents blame the interwebs for helping me spiral into information madness. Whoosh! goes my computer privileges.

So here I sit in my room scribbling for my therapy. I should be thankful because they could have shipped me off to Dr. Feelgood with his bag of magic pills and dimestore prognosis – teen angst. Could there be a more overused phrase? Oh howsabout "act normal". As in “act normal and you get your computer back”. Sorry folks but the Good Ship Normal done sailed a long time ago.

All my life I’ve had this feeling that there was something with me....within me. And the older I get, the more powerful that something…someone has become. If only I was stupid like Perky McBoobies next door, then I would just dismiss these feelings with a big bright smile and a homecoming queen wave. Elbow elbow. Wrist wrist.

But I’m too damn smart for my own good. Dad’s favorite saying. If only he knew how terrified I am too. If only mom knew my sarcastic mouth hides a dark secret. If only they knew what I know. But one wrong word could get me dosed with aripiprazole. And then it's definitely game over.

So what do I do as the voice inside gets louder? As the other in my body gets stronger?

I know that you are there. And I know that you want to kill me.

Rena Rossner said...

Dave came to pick me up today after school. He'd been gone for two weeks, visiting his brother out in Seattle. And now he was leaning on the iron railings outside the school, the strands of his golden ponytail picked out by the sun to shine just for me. The stubble on his upper lip made him look dark and brooding. And I paraded past all my friends, head held high and grabbed his hand. It was so good to see him again.

We drove to the beach in his mom's white Volvo. His shining steed, he called it. And I? A princess that he rescued from the dingy dark confines of my high school that for all its private funding looks like it's past its sell date.

We took off our shoes and found a spot on the sand. Stared out at the sea. He didn't say anything. I wrapped my arms around his large bicep, lay my head on his shoulder. The sea air mingled with the scent of the Nag Champa he burns while he practices.

The silence was broken only by the sound of the crashing waves and the call of an occasional seagull. No worries, right? His mom even said that once, she put her ear to the door of his room and heard him speaking more words to me than she had ever heard him speak in his life. So he's the silent type. So what?

I should have known.

Eventually he took something lumpy, wrapped in a plastic bag, out of his jacket pocket. "Here," he said, tossing it onto my lap. "Happy Birthday. It sort of got crushed on the plane."

And you know what it was? A broken statue of two lovers embracing. Not just broken, no. More like crushed. As if he'd stepped on it or something.

"Look, Angie," he told the waves, not me. "I don't think its going to work out anymore."

My eyes went wide. But all I could do was keep fingering the broken pieces of the statue in the plastic bag. I wanted to scream. To fling all the broken shards in his face. To say, "what, you go to visit your brother in Seattle and now I'm not good enough for you anymore?" But it was my turn to be silent.

"I'll drive you home, okay?"

I wanted to say "Okay? No! It's not okay. It will never be okay again." But I didn't. I looked at the waves and I said, "Go. Just go Dave."

And you know what he did? He went!!!! He left me there on the beach! What a jerk. What a stupid present. A broken statue like some kind of symbol. It wasn't enough that he broke my heart. No. He had to leave me with physical evidence of its fragments.

I stayed there until my tears wet the shards of the statue. And then I flung the bag, tears and all, into the sea.

Aniko said...

Yeah, I know, pathetic. A teenager’s blog about nothing at all. So get lost, or leave one of those YOU SUCK!!! comments idiots like you litter the internet with. I don’t care and I won’t even waste any energy on clicking delete. I have better things to do. The new Young Turks vid is up and I haven’t watched it yet.

So here’s the big pile of nothing at all. My mother won’t get off my back with her nonsense that I should find some friends I can talk to. She says I have a problem. You’d think she’d be jumping with joy that I have straight A’s and perhaps concentrate on my stepsister who was suspended from kindergarten for cutting another girl’s hair. But instead she’s reading this dumbass psychology book and going on about my problems. Well, newsflash: I don’t have any problems! I’m perfectly fine. It’s not my fault everyone else at school is a functional retard and I have nothing to say to them. All they talk about is football and what was on TV last night and the stupidest video games, I swear, the ones without any sensible plot or open world play.

That’s the boys. Now—can you imagine this—she asks me about the girls, too. Well Jesus on a moldy cracker, I can’t even understand what those are saying half the time. I’m there thinking they’re speaking a foreign language, the way they coo and sing-song away, until one of them asks if the algebra homework is odds only or announces there’s cheese pizza for lunch I and start to make out the English words. And when they’re not hugging each other or imitating a Japanese opera singer on speed, their noses are buried in those stupid vampire books, and they’re twisting their hair around and sighing about some pale-ass dude named Edward. Really, what the hell am I supposed to say to them?!

Well, okay, so there’s this one in my English class that seems to have some sense. She’s finished with the vampire thing, and she’s reading Ursula Le Guin. It’s not that I like her or anything—she’s way too skinny and her nose is all weird and pointy—but she was the only person who made any sense in that talk show thing. Everyone else sucked at improvising, but she said just the kinds of things Ophelia would say. She was pretty convincing. (Especially considering she was supposed to be, like, dead.)

So anyway, maybe I’ll send her a loopmail and ask if she wants to be in my science group since she just transferred to my class. I have two dumbasses there now and I have to do all the work.

She doesn’t seem to have any friends there. I wonder if her mother bugs her, too.

I wonder if she writes a stupid blog, too.

2girls said...

Dear Diary,

I’m leaving for Kinmen tomorrow. I’m really nervous about it. If my leg is Ok, I wouldn’t worry a bit, but with my leg the way it is….what if I can’t make it? The doctor told me not to go, but this is once in a life time thing. If I don’t go this time, I’ll never be able to go next time I’m back. I’ll be an American with a US passport by then; I won’t be able to get on any military base. I prayed and wished for my leg to recover. I can’t understand why it is taking so long. Life is really unfair.

I hope it won’t rain as much in Kinmen. In the last camp, it poured for 4 to 5 days straight. I experienced my wettest week there because our cloths were never dry. Not even our underwear. We’d wash our clothes and hang them out to dry but it always rained. So our clothes were clean but never dry. It felt like we were drowning in a flood. Yuck!

Got to go pack now. Uncle’s worker is here. They are remodeling what used to be my home. Well, mom and dad’s house. Not anymore. It belongs to uncle now. Uncle’s parents live here too. I don’t think I’d be able to handle having my husband’s parents live with me….but that’s just me.

Barb said...

Dear Mom,

I'm back to wondering again. Wondering if I can find a way to contact you. I thought I was past this, and I made sure my guidence teacher thought I was too. But then tonight, I couldn't help it. I stared into the closet, willing it to have a secret back opening, to let me step into Narina and a world where you are still a part of it. It wasn't until I drew the door closed behind me that I caught what I was doing and stepped back out into the hall.

Heath dropped by then, and all I could feel was relief that he hadn't found me crying in the dark, sitting clutching the unused skis and wiping my face on Dad's golf towel. I'm the only one that opens that closet these days. No one is interested in doing anything that might be fun. We can't without you here and with the neighbours twicthing curtains at us anytime the front door opens. We're in mourning, but if we weren't, they'd see it to it real quick.

Hunter Watson from the corner block asked me when you were going to be resurected. Just rode up on his bike and blurted out the question. What do you say to that? After a long slience, Heath just hurried me up the road and straight into the house. I could sense all the curtains relaxing as he slammed the door. I know Dad has thought about it because I've seen the garden catalogue open to the herb page. Just one simple order would be all it would take before we could come get you from the graveyard. I know there's still time.

I looked up the ritual in the old books you kept in the den. Translating it was a bitch and there's still some words I don't understand, but I know Dad could do it. One cycle of the moon: that's all we'd need and then you'd be back here in the house, cooking pancakes for breakfast and making us do our homework. Although would you? I know that you would come back different, that there are risks, but at least you would be back. And right now Mom, I need you, no matter how you are. I need you because I've seen that Heath is next and that the shadow follows him everywhere. I even saw it in line at lunch today. I really need you to come back back to us, Mom.

Hal said...

I don't know, today it was embarassing to see Sheila angry at me. I am feeling ashamed that I did not support her when she needed me. After all she is my own sister. Shiela is a 9th grader. She had slapped John, a 7th grader and he slapped her back. She got shocked at the return and complained to me promptly as I was the group leader. She wanted me to hit him. She being a deputy group leader was doing her duty to correct him on his band duty for the day, but John's uncaring attitude that day ticked her off. Though I don't agree with her slapping, I got angry at John about raising his hand on my sister. But, instantly several thoughts ran through my mind.
John's brother is a gangster and he can harm Sheila when alone because I will not possibly be escorting her everywhere. I remembered how John's brother looks upon John. He even broke Peter's nose last week for some little argument between John and Peter near John's home. Poor peter was even threatened to not tell anyone about who hit him.
Though not scared but concerned about Shiela's safety, I promptly told Shiela to calm down and warned her not to raise her hand on anyone for these silly things. The whole group was watching us and I requested both of them to leave it there. Actually, I even pseudo apologized to John and requested him not to take it seriously which he agreed to. I could see Shiela was not happy at all. To be frank, I also behaved the way I did to not set a bad example to the group. Though the everybody around was expecting me to actually hit John.
I am confused if I did right or wrong by downplaying Shiela's anguish but am definitely ashamed for not standing up for her, my lovely sister. Shiela, I am really sorry but I hope you understand my protective nature and forgive me.

Healing said...

Nathan, your contests give us a chance to post a comment on your brainy blog. I’m far away from USA; still I’m participating for fun. My teen diary entry is:

Jan 25, 2003
The ghost, the monster named time pass is still hovering around me… taking toll of my minutes, hours and days. And I am just tolerating, watching hopelessly. As usual I wasted the whole day. I can’t say how I made the alarm of 4’o clock to sleep. I woke up at 5.00 am. That means I missed my English class. I decided to study physics. The book was before me. It was open. No one was awake in home to disturb me, but still I was not concentrating. I was staring at the white pages with black dots on it.

There was a blackout in my mind. I started groping for the reason for my distraction. I had lost my balance. I had lost my confidence. ‘The entrance examination’… the ultimate queen and ‘The board examination’ mother of the queen are ruling my life. My hopes, my dreams and my chances to survive are dependent on them. My soul depends on them. I’m… I’m just a slave… An old donkey carrying luggage of studies, fatigued, worn out, numb due to strokes of fate. Those strokes of fate appear in my answer papers in the form of correct or wrong marks… more wrong that correct marks.

I hate slavery. I hate bullish donkeywork. My mind wants to be free. It loves freedom. It… it just can’t be confined to the books and the exams and those tiny question papers. My answers are also tiny… and I get tiny marks. There are people out there in my class who get 100 percent marks. If other Homo sapiens can do it, then why can’t I? I just can’t. I can’t concentrate to the exams. Should I give up? Someone has said that ‘if you really want anything then you can do it.’ Do I really want to score in the exams?

I shouldn’t envy others. Due to their success I shouldn’t be blindfolded. I must improve myself. If they are flying high in the sky like a helium balloon, then I must be a spaceship or an artificial moon to planet Earth and overtake them. If they’re shining like a cracker in the sky, then I must shine like a star. I need light of marks… I need light of knowledge. But what if I feel these two are different? No, I shouldn’t feel like that. I must like the exams and I must be able to work for the exams.

I like dreaming. I dream my life without exams. I dream reaching my dream of changing the system. I love reading for fun. I love observing nature. I love writing… not in exams. But I have to write in exams. I have to stop dreaming and have to study for the exams. I have to dream good marks in the exams. I must take part in the rat race. I must prevent cutting of my throat in this cut throat competition. I must concentrate. But… what if I’m not a rat?

what's up in therapy said...

Diary of a Teen Blog Queen
Dishing Juicy Truth Smoothies since 2008

Posted 5 Jan 17:52

Apparently I hear that some of you think you know who I am. Well get real. This is one blog queen that you’re never gonna get. This warrior princess is spying on you all and you ain’t gonna get within a mile, guys, of finding out who I am.

So to today’s news.

Mikey, this is for you. You know who you are!

A word of advice? Next time you play with a girl, switch off the webcam. Highlights are shown in the attached clip. Don’t all rush girls!

And now for the news you’ve all been waiting for….
The drunk as a skunk challenge for these holidays has been won by….

Ta Dah! Drum Roll! Glitter ball and lights…. And my best new party dress….

Ryan H.

Girls, Ryan wins this year for being spotted in his parents’ garage passed out on a pile of his dad’s old girlie mags. Nice taste. Not!

Oh. And Mrs H. If you’re wondering what happened to Ryan’s black top. The one you haven’t seen for two weeks. Ryan probably forgot to mention it got thrown down the drain at the last practice. Yeah. Course it did have vomit all over it. But I guess you probably didn’t want to know that. No. thought not.

So to next week’s challenge.

What has Mr D been up to with Miss S? And could it get him fired? Answers to this blog by Tuesday next.
See ya! LOL

Evelyn said...

Dear Journal,
I have been trying to find the courage to write down what has happened since the last entry...He came over again two nights ago. I really thought he was gone until I saw my mother come home with him again. I was so angry with her that I couldn't believe that she would let him back into our lives, not after what he did to us. I really thought she learned her lesson and that she was done with him. Unfortunately she hasn't. Now all I hear are her screams from him beating on her again!!! What can I do? call the police again or just let her deal with it. Why! Why! I will never let that happen to me. I will never fall in love. I have to go now he is trying to get in my room again...

Evelyn said...

Dear Journal,
I have been trying to find the courage to write down what has happened since the last entry...He came over again two nights ago. I really thought he was gone until I saw my mother come home with him again. I was so angry with her that I couldn't believe that she would let him back into our lives, not after what he did to us. I really thought she learned her lesson and that she was done with him. Unfortunately she hasn't. Now all I hear are her screams from him beating on her again!!! What can I do? call the police again or just let her deal with it. Why! Why! I will never let that happen to me. I will never fall in love. I have to go now he is trying to get in my room again...

The Shadow said...

January 21

When is it going to end?

I’m constantly bombarded with the bullshit propaganda of the world: abstinence, just say no, stay in school. So when is it going to be fun? When can I stop worrying about everyone else’s worries? I’m told college is supposed to be a blast but if Kathy is any measure then I will be more prone to lose weight and my hair rather than my inhibitions.

Five more months in this fascist house. I can’t wait until I turn 18 and even more so for graduation. Farwell Dictator Dad! Goodbye Mother, you would make a fucking fantastic drill instructor.

Brian still won’t talk to me. No surprise there. He knew how strict my father is, but there’s no point in going over it again and again. 3 months and I miss him terribly. I can’t wait for the day when I won’t have to see him in the halls anymore, or the sluts he seems to like so much now. I’m pointing at you, Samantha Smith. I hope he breaks your heart into a million miserable pieces too. Then again I doubt tramps like you have any feeling outside of the bed.

Anita3 said...

5/15 Mourning naive days!!!

David said he knows its hard concentrating on school after everything we’ve been through AND WHAT’S YET TO COME. I barely opened my mouth to TOTALLY agree but he placed a finger on my lips to continue. He then said (We’ve got to make some attempt to get our lives back on track. He knows everyone is pretending none of this is true. He’s guilty of that, and hates it just as much as we do. He thinks if we try to live the life we had before all this CRAP!!!!!! started, it’ll help us.)

I told David things will never be the same!!! Our entire life has been nothing but one BIG LIE!!!!! Lies told by our PARENTS that we loved and trusted. Who the hell are we? I can’t live this life AND HANDLE THOSE DREAMS!!!!!

David placed his finger back on my lips to stop my ranting and raving. He continued talking (He wasn’t saying we should try to make things the way they were. He knows our lives have change forever. He said he meant we shouldn’t stop living because EVERYthing in our life have change. Then David said what I wanted and needed to hear him say YOU’RE THE SAME NICOLE I LOVED ALL MY LIFE AND THAT WILL NEVER CHANGE. He said in his stubborn but cute way, “He refuses to let anything or anyone destroy what we have, including this CRAP!!!!!! He thinks we should continue with our lives, going to school, and making-out in his car…… stuff like that. David said once we overcome the little things, it’ll be easier handling the BIG CRAP!!!)

David said we both know who we are, don’t lose sight of that, regardless of our parents outrageous blaspheme!!!!! He placed both his hands on my cheeks staring me in the eye. He ask me don’t give up on living my life, on us being together. Of course I was crying by then. He used a finger to wipe my tears away. He’s been wiping away my tears since that horrible night. How does he say exactly what I need to hear? We stood in each other’s arms for a long time. He whispered with his lips grazing my ear (Together, no matter what?) We’ve been saying this to each other since the second grade “our promise.” I whispered back to him (Together, no matter what.) And I hugged him tighter.

But I couldn’t help thinking “How could our parents do this to us and our friends? We can’t handle this. I guess that’s why David, me and our friends jump out the window at Angela’s house. David warned our parents he would jump if they told any more lies. We jumped anyway knowing it was all the truth!! We couldn’t handle the truth. I CAN’T WRITE THE TRUTH!!”

Afterwards our parents said we could’ve walk out the door.

Kevin said...

Dearest Diarrhea,

Please don’t take offence at today’s salutation. I have important things to bitch about today. I was down at the lake this morning, sitting by its pristine and opulent blue lapping shores…cut the crap, Toby. You have to keep an eye on me or I will lie my ass off. I was down at the lake, at one of Toronto’s many infamous E-Coli beaches. I was reading, yet again. The thing that pisses me off the most is that all the good first lines are taken. “I am a sick man…I am a wicked man.” I mean, you have to despise Dostoevsky for all his great-first-line thievery! I closed the damned book, I tell you, and I cursed, “To hell with you, sick man!” So, after rinsing off the contaminated beach dreck, I took a stroll, a walk down Yonge Street. You know the street, massive-people-everywhere-you-look-street. Anyway, to make a short story even shorter, I was wondering why nobody reads, “Too Loud A Solitude”. I was thinking angrily to myself that they would really love the shit-flinging blond-haired braided lady, if only they would give the book half a chance. I mean, was she a hottie or was she a hottie! Anyone can dance, but to fling hot-shit on your fellow dancers! Now that’s a feat worthy of kudos. That’s my kind of date. So, anyway, I’m out there in my orange shorts, my Jesus Christ Super Sandals, and my Ignatius J. Reilly hunting cap, wandering up and down the freak-show boulevard. No shirt, you say? Do you really think I’m looking for your approval or acceptance here, dear diary! I was wearing a friggin’ green hunting cap, for Christ’s sake! Keep your no-shirt comments to yourself. My concave-chested 85lb weakling physique has its appeal…to the aficionado, I’m a wonderful work in progress. A dead butterfly, if you will…having life breathed into its emaciated wings daily. Anyway, I was trying to promote the book, wishing that if only I could re-create the shit flying scene and show them its literary merit, that maybe I could convince even one person to read it. I would have had better luck explaining the garbage compacted by the main character and its colorful Van Gogh covered, dead-fly infested facades! There was no talking to these people! I couldn’t believe that nobody was listening to my tirade. Nobody reads anymore! I realized that I was wasting my time on these killers of the written word. Anyway, I have to stop ranting like this. I mean, I really do. I don’t even remember what I began to rant about. Ganesha is now at my doorstep, braying like a Goddamned cab at the curb. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that one should never keep a fat elephant waiting…And yet, I linger. I am the sole reason the bastards invented the word tangent. Know that above all else! Okay, Okay…God dammit! I’m coming, you ignorant pachyderm!

Kevin said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Simon C. Larter said...

Dear Diary,

I know Daddy wouldn’t approve but I’m going to sneak out on Friday. Nico says there’s a party he wants me to come to and I’m going. I don’t care what anyone says.

Daddy doesn’t like Nico. He’s probably still mad about that time he gave me and Michaela beer when I slept over. But Nico was only being nice and anyways we had a lot of fun. It made our heads all spinny but it was really funny and Michaela and me laughed a lot. Nico didn’t laugh so much but remember I told you when Michaela went to the bathroom he put his arm around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I really liked that.

So anyway maybe they’ll have beer at the party and it’ll be really funny again. I wonder if anyone else I know’ll be there? If its only Nico’s friends it might not be so much fun but I’m sure Nico’ll take care of me.

It’s going to be so much fun!



JenniferWalkup said...

Diary –

Today was like a hot fudge sundae, no for real. It was dripping with sweetness (not) and let me tell you, it was full of nuts. You guessed it, the annual friggen Morrison family reunion. God if I had to watch one more ballet recital video and hear one more story about how hot my dad was growing up and got all the girls – I mean seriously, how disgusting is that.

Oh, did I mentioned the worst part. You guessed it – Justin was there! Why the hell did I invite him to come to the family reunion? Oh that’s right because I forgot they were nothing but a bunch of freaks and was looking for someone to hang with when I got bored. Oh yeah and the fact that I’m pretty much obsessed with him like every second of the day, and it gets worse when I’m not with him. Right. My God, Aunt Sheila was so bombed she was literally pulling her bra out of her shirt and trying to bum cigarettes off him. And he doesn’t even smoke cigarettes.

Lucky for me though, he brought a joint and we were able to escape for “a walk.” Luck number 2 is that it was sunny as hell, so sunglasses required were not suspicious at all when we got back, just in time for steak and shrimp all that good shit Uncle Bill knows how to cook like it’s his job. Oh my God I ate so much guacamole I think I gained like 97 pounds.

So just about the time the adults started getting rowdy in the pool, the cousins were all setting up a beer pong table in the garage. Pretty much everyone had invited friends so at that point Justin and I escaped up to the hot tub on the top deck. He is amazing, let me just say it now. I let him get to second even though I totally shouldn’t have, especially because people could have seen (like my parents – HA!), but he felt so good and he told me my smile is better than any of the other girls.

I felt him too, but totally just over his bathing suit, I mean, we’ve only been together like two weeks. I dunno though, we’re supposed to go camping for the 4th. Who knows what will happen then – IT could actually happen. If he’s even still around. You know the luck I have with guys. I don’t know, I kinda want to, but on the other hand, I don’t want to be used, but he’s had so many girlfriends I’d be worried how I’d compare.

Not sure. I’ll have to think about that one some more.

For now, I better get downstairs and get Brian off the garage floor. Mom and Dad are gonna shit when they see the pile of puke tomorrow. I'm always taking care of someone. Brothers suck.

A misinterpreted wave said...

*Language warning*


Son_of _a_PreacherMan Fight @ Lunch. Oval. Shiz will pay. Hands only
Henrii@Son_of_a_PreacherMan Fkn h8t that guy. Punch hiz fkn face in will ya
Son_of_a_PreacherMan@Henrii no worries babe. U going to central tonite?
Henrii@Son_of_a_PreacherMan Maybe. Dad’s stupid GF wants me home – says i’m out 2 much. Stuff her *shapes hand like a pistol*
Dot_527 OMFG fight at lunch. Team Jared <3
Brittles@Dot_527 Are you crazy? He won’t even notice you there *Lame idea*
Brittles@IamAwesum Jared ‘ psych- head’ Williams planning a fight @ lunch. What an @rse!
IamAwesum@Azzaron FIGHT. Marrawong High. 1.25
Azzaron Marrawong High@ 1.25. Meet at bus stop near oval
Proud 2BFOB@Azzaron You need back up man?!?!?
Azzaron@Proud2BFOB Fuck yeah. Bring ‘em all. Williams letting his mouth run again
IamAwesum Check it out – Fight at Marra:
Son_of _a_PreacherMan *delete*
Henrii *delete*
Brittles@IamAwesum get it off!!!!!!!! School has called the cops

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was I thinking? What should I say? I don’t know what to say. I feel fucking sick. The blood. It was freaking everywhere. Jesus save me now. I need you man! Where did that fucking knife come from? Is he dead? Can’t be. That wouldn’t have happened. Man I need something, anything to get me outta this major fuck up. Focus Jared, focus. As far as they know it was a simple fight gone bad. Feel sick, what the hell happened? I wish my hands would ... shit, cops. Breathe man. In, out. Focus. How you going to get out of the one Preacher Boy? Oh God, the blood. So much. He deserved it, I gotta remember that one – he deserved it. C’ mon breathe man, focus. Think man. Blood, so much blood. Breathe man. Think of something else. Henrii, yep she’s cool, but her face when she saw what I did. How can I get past that? Total shock. It was obvious she hated me then. Wouldn’t have pissed on me in a Bushfire. Yeah, you’re a big hit with the ladies! Well I was ... Jesus help me. Why do I always have to open my mouth and be an arse? Look where it’s got you idiot! Regret is an understatement here man. Fuck. No more of this. Jesus, if I get outta this mess ... just get me out of this mess. I really didn’t mean for this to happen. The blood. Is that blood still on my hands? Stomach churning. I’m gonna shit my pants. C’mon man, breathe. They will know. They will know you didn’t mean it.

“Mr. Williams ... MR.WILLIAMS. You need to answer the question. As you are aware, Steven Nelson has been very seriously injured, and it is clear that you were involved in this fight. We need to know how the other school became involved. There are also rumours that someone filmed the fight on their phone. You do realise that fighting, and subsequent filming and uploading to social networking sites is in violation of school policy. MR. WILLIAMS ...”

mpeters5 said...

Dear Whisper Trap,

I’m terrified I’ve contracted hepatitis. Today is the eighth day of summer vacation and I went to the country fair with my cousins. It was late afternoon and so crowded we were like sheep in a pen. The food stalls smelled atrocious. I don’t know anyone who’d dare to eat the batter-dipped fish. All I can say is it wasn’t “freshly caught from the Maryland shore” as the sign stated.

But who am I to ridicule any person who’d take a chance on tainted seafood served by carnies when I’ve just been given a tattoo in a filthy shed by a man named Jeff?

My sister Daisy dared me into his tattoo “parlor” with the promise to let me drive her car even though I’m underage. So I rushed inside, thinking I’d turn around and run back out, but once I got past the flowery curtain that looked like something the cleaning lady wears, it wasn’t so bad. There were posters of Jeff’s art tacked on the walls and two plastic chairs like you’d see in a doctor’s office, so it couldn’t be too unsanitary, could it?

Jeff looked up and smiled when I entered, and holy shit, was he smokin! I mean the hot, badass type with the scruffy beard and a cute little line around his mouth when he smiled. I flipped through the photo album on the coffee table and pointed out a calla lily.

Before I knew it, I was leaning over the chair back with my pants around my knees, having Jeff ink my butt cheek! It didn’t hurt any worse than the time I blew my knee in volleyball, but I was afraid Daisy would burst in any moment!

It only took a few minutes, since the tattoo was so small, and then Jeff smeared some goo on it and covered it up—God, I hope the bandage was sterile! Then I paid him and made my escape!

When I got outside the shed, my sister wasn’t even waiting for me, so no one knows my little secret! And that means no one will truly understand when I die from hepatitis. What are the symptoms? Will it be a wasting disease or one that takes me quickly? Damn, I need to get on the internet but my sister’s using the computer!

And if the carnies move on to the next town, how can my father find Jeff to sue him?

Glad that’s off my chest—even though it’s on my ass!

Calla Rumpy

Anonymous said...

How many cousins does a girl need? Zero. That's how many. Unfortunately, my mom doesn't think so. She just came to my room and demanded I talk to Billy. Nicely. I was going to say, not in this life, and she already opened her mouth to answer that in this case I would be grounded for eternity, but right then Billy sort of floated from behind her and showed me a hundred-dollar bill.

"Liv, I'll give you this, if you talk to me for ten minutes."

Both mom and I were floored, while Billy slipped into my room and gently closed the door in front of Mom’s nose. I knew that she would interrogate me with extreme prejudice about this, but it would come later. As for now, I snatched the money.

A hundred bucks! Tomorrow I could pay off my debt to Derek and live without fear. Life was smiling on me. That is, it had been smiling, until Billy opened his mouth. By the time he closed it ten minutes later, I would have given him his money back just not to have talked to him. If only I didn't owe money to that jerk.

Then Billy left.

I don't want to think about what he said.

He is an exhibitionist. An exhibitionist! Billy! It took me like eleven minutes out of those ten to wrap my mind around this. I mean, it's nice to know he has some human problems, but couldn't they have been normal human problems? Like nail biting or uncontrollable masturbating. No, wait, the masturbating thing would be bad too. Not in the sense that I'm against masturbation, but that I don’t want him to tell me about it.

With nail biting, by the way, it would have been easy. I could sympathize with it. No, really, I could hold his hands to stop him from biting them. But to hold his pants up so he wouldn't expose himself? How I wish I didn’t owe Derek anything save a punch on the nose!

Okay, the pants holding is not exactly what Billy wants me to do. His therapist said that if Billy found a buddy and told him about his addiction and always stayed with him, then he, Billy, wouldn't feel like exposing himself. I wish Billy went to some other therapist.

Tomorrow Billy wants to go jogging to Prudence Park. I am supposed to come along. As his buddy. I tried to convince him to go jogging along the Interstate—it has a nice open shoulder along it. Even a hardened exhibitionist wouldn’t be tempted there. But you would be with me, Billy said. And ran his fingers down my cheek. I can’t even begin to describe how that worried me. But hey, it could have been worse. I could have had more than one cousin.

nathaninlatin said...

An excerpt from the records of a perhaps not altogether typical teenager -

“The king announced his impending betrothal in council this morning. As was to be expected, the noblemen made a great show of offering blessings, eulogizing the agreeability of such a union and discoursing at length on the auspiciousness of the occasion. Everyone agreed his matrimony long overdue and their solicitation inordinately prolonged. It was then with no little discomfort they received the discovery I was to be credited with proposing the alliance. Jubilant congratulation quite directly melted away to counsels of caution. The king as always would be humbly advised to studiously measure his actions, and to what degree was he acquainted with the princess in question, after all? One must not recklessly enter a sacred union; they feared for the king’s lasting felicity. This quite thaumaturgical transformation is hardly least among the feats I have witnessed the barons perform; if only they were capable of effecting such alchemical metamorphoses with more profitable results I am certain it would spell the end of grief within the kingdom!

"Laboring to preserve their dignity in the face of a most inexplicable reversal could only have been strenuous for the flustered nobles, and I was unable to refrain from offering an amused sneer at the spectacle. One simpering baronet, quite offended, defamed me as fratricide, but the king gave no indication he heard the epithet. I would pay the event no more heed, except the aspersion was spoken above a whisper, and the king’s proximity quite near, and I find I cannot entirely route the suspicion the king dissembled in displaying no reaction.

“There have, I confess, been incidents in the past suggesting the king, in his heart, holds me responsible. Their indefinite and inconclusive nature have not made them fit for recording, especially as the king’s assurances to the contrary are numerous. Despite this, as a result of my inability to dispel the impression he questions my innocence, I am forced to acknowledge I doubt his word. Which of these considerations is more distressing I could not say.”

Sandy Carlson said...

Second Entry of TIME SISTERS (135 words):

Hi GGGrandmother. 10.20.0079
Happy birthday to us! Thanks for the gift of your-our-this diary. Sorry my letters look messy. Hands cramped writing this. Takes long time, and shaking, and waiting. If Mom knew I was writing on paper, I’d be so recycled. Especially writing in THE journal.
Year-sibling Q still mad at me for kissing R. That happened five lights ago. She has a long memory strip. Thought kisses might have a taste. R tastes wet. Wide and sloppy wet. I’d rather eat mashed fruit. Might try it again sometime, the kissing part. Already do the eating bit.
Shared birthdays with recycled relatives make us Time Sisters, GGGrandmother. I just made that up. Your entries are depressing. I’ve known sad, but yours is lower-level.
Hand hurts. How’d you write so much?
Hugs through time, A.

Daniel Southwell said...

Dear J.

I tasted, for just a few months, what a wonderful thing it is to be close to you , and now that it is taken I am empty. I feel more terrible than you can imagine that you are feeling the same.
But at the same time, I still do not retret it entirely. Who knows what might be different if I have not been there for you? I cannot speculate, but I know it is through this that you have come to trust me (at least, sometimes) and I believe that will be valuable.
Also, you should know, that thus far those were the best days of my life. The worst, as well, since I knew you were suffering, but so precious in their closeness.
I love you more than I ever thought was possible, more than in the past letters, though I thought then I loved as much as I could.
You are the most precious, priceless person I have ever known. I would die for you in a heartbeat, and I want to live for you with the same love it would take to die.
Someday, just for a moment so you don’t become proud, I want to show you how lovely you are in my eyes. I don’t know how, but I suppose that’s okay since it would knock you reeling just as it has me.

I love you more than you can imagine,

Anonymous said...

AKA Crystal(on the forums)
OK here goes nothing....

Dear Diary,
Today was just an ordinary Monday. Got up late, was late for class, and forgot my lunch in the fridge. Whatever.
Theres a new kid in school, I hear his name is Steve, but I haven’t actually met him. Not sure I should even bother trying. He is kinda cute, out of my league, and stupid captain cheerleader Lindsey likes him. I saw her sitting next to him at lunch. Thou he did look a little annoyed while she sat there chatting his ear off about Firdays game no doubt. He’s in my English class, he sat in the opposite back corner from me. I thought I saw him looking at me once but it was prolly just wishful thinking.
Some times I wonder why I’m such an outcast. I mean am I really that different then any one else? Just cause I live with my grandma and have to stay home a lot to take care of her. I don’t have time to go to football game, I have to help put Sam to bed. I don’t play sports, not nearly coordinated enough. Gram says there is nothing wrong with me, but I don’t believe her. I’ll be 17 on Friday and I’ve never been on a date or had a boyfriend. Instead I spend all my time writing in this silly book or drawing my silly sketches.
I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. What is normal anyway? Being captain cheerleader and bouncing around school like a brainless wonder, is that normal? Or is the band geek that cracks perverted jokes about band camp normal? Or maybe normal is relative and everyone is normal in their own way. Maybe it’s normal to be different, if not God would have made us all look like Lindsey-heaven forbid. You know maybe I like being different. I just wish my kind of different had a few more followers. :)
It's late, and I really don't want to be late tomorrow too. Night.

Karma & Adam said...

Dear Diary,

Day 134.

Another perfectly boring day. I don’t know what my problem is. I have a perfect life, and I hate every second of it.

I know I’ve talked about all this stuff before. I’ve been talking about it for 133 days already. I’m so predictable it makes me want to vomit.

I have perfect parents. Mom stays home and somehow keeps busy with meaningless tasks, like making sure breakfast and dinner are always on the table at exactly the same time. Dad wears a suit and tie every day and brings home enough money that I have a massive flat screen TV in my room and a brand-new convertible car to drive every day. I go to a private school filled with equally perfect and boring kids. I’m popular. Really popular. I’m pretty too, with long brown hair and green eyes, and am thin without having to try at all. I have tons of friends and a boyfriend who is the “cream of the crop”, as my mom says. I’m not conceited. My life is just perfect. Boring. Boring. Boring.

Sometimes I wish I were Ellen Janowisk. She’s the exact opposite of me. She’s awkward, wears glasses on a very big nose, and has thighs that don’t work in leggings. She is the least popular girl at school, with hardly any friends. All the kids make fun of her, especially my friends, who call her “Elephant Ellen.” I’ve never called her that because the truth is I’m jealous. I wish I had that kind of peace in my life. No expectations. No perfection at all.

Today I spent the entire math period dreaming I was Ellen. I tried to come up with all the things I could do to become unpopular. What would it take? I need a plan. I wonder if Ellen looks at me and wishes for my life. If only we could trade.

I can’t take it anymore. The boredom is killing me. Things are going to change. Today.

Ruth Hansen said...

January Something, 2009

I’m not invisible. They pretend not to see me, but I know they do. Trash sitting on the curb. That’s all I am. I could be lifted away and forgotten. Good riddance. The neighborhood stinks no more.
Adults tell themselves it’s that easy. They think they believe their own kid is better, there’s no danger. But it’s not true. Denial may let them walk past me like I’m a dog terd they don’t want on their shoes, but it won’t help them sleep at night. Something in them knows. I am a poster child for their fear.
I used to be good. I did some homework. I said my prayers. I even made dinner a few times. School just sucked. I’m not talking about the boring junk. I could have put up with that. I mean the real stuff. The stuff parents don’t want to know is going on in their kids’ lives.
They tell us crap about “just sayin’ no.” It’s as if it’s a simple answer to a question. They don’t tell you how many times you might have to say it or who you’ll have to say it to. They don’t tell you that your best friend might be lying. They don’t tell you hiding in space casts shadows on lots of lives or how hard it is when you come back down. There’s a big difference between “no” and “know.”
Too bad the only one I can tell now is this crummy notebook I found at that nasty shelter I woke up in last month. Damn, it’s cold out here. I wonder if anyone is still looking for me.

Shari said...

Dear Whoever Finds This Bottle, Assuming They Also Find The Letter Inside It,

I'm on a boat. And I have a bottle. Haven't you ever heard the story of the call of distress in a bottle?
Well this isn't exactly a distress call. I mean, being a seventeen-year-old guy and being forced to go on a two-week cruise with your mother and her friends probably calls for a distress call. But really I don't mind it, actually.
It’s just that I had this dream that I found a message in a bottle. Hasn't anyone ever told you to follow your dreams?
Last night one of Mom’s gal pals asked me whether I would rather have a mediocre lifelong marriage, maybe a few kids, and a house in the suburbs OR one night of true, perfect, movie-like love and a life of being single otherwise.
What would you choose?
I know I’ll never see your answer. But you can write it anyway. If you want, of course. No pressure or anything.
Well, I don't know you, but for some reason it's easy to talk to you. Ever talked to a person you don't know? It's exciting.
So I'll tell you my answer to the question.
I don't know.
Boring. Sorry. But I’ve already had more then one night of perfect love, so that rules out that option. Now do I get punished, stuck with a mediocre love life for the rest of time? Or is there another option?
I hope the future is fun, that you have a good life, and that you have more than two options to choose from. Write back if you want, or write to someone else. It was nice talking to you.

Your bottle buddy, Cameron Burr, 2010

Josie said...


Today the nuns forced us to write postcards to our friends. My postcard had a picture of palmettos waving in the breeze by the ocean. The nuns will send the postcard to Grandma so it can be postmarked from South Carolina. They even have a sunlamp here so when we go home, we’ll be tan. That way people will believe I was in South Carolina, not freezing my ass in Maine. What a crock!


The radio is on in the rec room and the DJ keeps playing the same two songs over and over. When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, or Like a bridge over troubled water. Like I need a reminder.


Mom hasn’t come to visit me once. I wish I could ask her some questions. No one here tells you what happens when you have the baby. Girls having the babies just leave by the back door, get in the van, and we never see them again.


This afternoon me and Debbie walked into town. They make us put on fake wedding rings before we sign out. As if we fool anybody. Ha! We found a store called The Far End where I bought a stick of metallic purple sealing wax and a brass stamp with a T on it. I sneak in the laundry room at night to melt the wax.

Today I thought about The Plan. The Plan is my secret. I don’t want to give up the baby. I’ll keep the baby and move in with Grandma. She could turn her sewing room into the baby’s nursery. We’ll take care of the baby together. Sister Mary Jack told me it was God’s will I give up the baby. The social worker said “Teresa, you wouldn’t want the child to be called a bastard in the playground, would you?” Mom and Dad think I got pregnant to wreck their lives. Only Grandma is nice to me anymore. She sends me care packages full of my favorite candy like Milk Duds. She’s the only one who still loves me.

I’m going to name the baby Christy if she’s a girl. I was going to name her Lisa because all the Lisas I know are pretty, smart, and popular. Except for the Lisa here at the home. What a drip! She cries all day, moaning about her boyfriend Mark, only she calls him “Mahk” because she’s from Boston. She plays this song over and over on the record player-- Lisa Lisa, sad Lisa Lisa. I’m tired of listening to that dumb Sad Lisa song!


Today I felt the baby kick for the first time!! I felt my baby kicking, not THE baby. MY baby!

Bill said...

Date: 1590945.1253.5

Dear Diary,

Today was freakin’ hilarious. We were just hanging out on the hill before school started. One of the Reptilians (I can never tell them apart – I hope they can tell each other apart or dating could be damn embarrassing) slipped on the ice and sent all four legs in opposite directions. It started sliding down the hill on its stomach and knocked over three of the Octopods on its way. It was like “Bowling for Octopi” – you’ve never seen anything like a reptile spinning four legs on ice and suddenly 24 tentacles are flying through the air like somebody trying to juggle Koosh balls. Well, they started spurting ink and made a mess all over the Gorn girls – ugly as sin, but think they’re “all that” – wearing new dresses ’cause they all want to be homecoming queen. My friend, Snin, started laughing so hard that his hot chocolate spat out of his proboscis. I was snorting so hard, I nearly fell over. And that was just the beginning of the day.

I’ll have to finish this later. One of the Slithya girls, Physs, is calling me in a minute for some help with her homework. Rowwwr! She’s the one with the massive

Crap gotta go.

jwaggnet5 said...

March 15. 2003

Dear Attie,

I saw a gazelle today; it moved across the earth like you on the dance floor. I wished to run after her, hoping by some magic it was really you. Father allowed me accompany him to the Museum. Attie, I actually stood in the presence of cuneiform. So near was I that I dared not breathe upon its sanctity. I read this today. “Wherein peace is possible, non-violence is natural, and tolerance is a way of life.”
All this talk of invasion. Attie, Attie, Attie.
Know it’s not your fault my beloved one—I don’t blame you. I do find it incredulous your country’s people allow your leaders to do such things as this—it’s them I don’t understand. Not far away from being all over, we expect your Shock and Awe three days, maybe less.
This probably my last epistle —thanks for knowing words like epistle—I love your mind. I told you that. Yes?
Father trying to save the Museum; want to tell him—Impossible--just can’t break his heart.
Not safe to say how--but I’ll be alright.
So far away are we, yet you walk within me.
I smell earthy elements: a damp shore lapped by silver lit water where pine needles scatter upon the surface. I smell musk left by dance. I smell it all mixed together with your silken hair. I hear the Owl’s call and the other’s return as they reach out to one another. I hear your quickened breath. Indelible. That Ozark night. And you.
Focus on the Oneness Attie. Feel it. Tell it. Most of all. Know it. There is a way.

Much Ishick, your Kabir

JMouse said...

March 15, Entry One – Beware the Ides of March *snort*:

Today I got dumped. I, Bryce O'Dell, Mr. Nice Guy. You know, the one girls always *pretend* they want. The one that opens doors for little old ladies, says please and thank you, kisses babies and all that crap. The one everyone’s Mom freaking loves.

The one who says "freaking," for freak’s sake.

Yep, dumped like a bag of dented kickballs on the playground. The worst part? Never saw it coming. Poor trusting Bryce just goes to his locker and waits for Lindsay like every morning. Winds up all alone like the King of Loserville until last bell rings (and runs all the way to homeroom lest we risk old principal Yoda’s responsibility lecture *makes finger quotes in air*). And guess who's there, right outside, wearing a sorry look and a new pair of low-rise jeans.

Yeah, Lindsay.

I’m all about to ask her where she's been when she opens her pretty curved mouth, the one I've kissed about a million times in the back of Mom's minivan, and I’m so distracted I almost don’t hear her say, "Bryce, we need to talk."

I keep staring at those lips.

"Bryce," her eyes turn watery. "I think we should see other people. I mean, we can still be friends and hang out and all. But I think we should see other people."

She gives me a faint smile, like that little opening to "hang out" will make me feel better, absolve her of wrecking my life. Throw poor Bryce a bone. *Woof!*

Yeah right. I may be nice, but I'm not stupid. I know precisely what that means. I don't say a thing back. There's no one else I want to see, so what's the point? Lindsay pouts, touches my arm and launches her final zinger:

"I’m sorry, Bryce. It’s not you, it's me."

Well, that much is freaking true. As Lindsay spins around on her brand new Manolo Blah-blahs, a swirl of blonde hair lifts from her dainty shoulders and glimmers under the fluorescent lights.

Yep, one bottle of bleach and it’s bye-bye Bryce and hello Greer Thomas.

Greer Thomas.

Spare me. The guy's name is freaking backwards. Not that it matters. When you're captain of the football team, homecoming king and built like Adonis, your name could be Pile O' Trash and it wouldn't make one bit of difference.

But really, the problem's not poor brain dead Greer. It's not even Lindsay, who used to be all sweet and shy and once filled my locker with tiny cut-out red paper hearts.

It's that stupid hair color. Seeped right into her brain and made her forget all that “I’m gonna love you forever, Bryce” crap.

So before another pitiful fool finds himself heartless, clinging to a deserted locker like a shipwreck victim, I’m gonna rid the world of Clairol #5.

Even if I have to destroy every last box myself.

Judoman said...

Journal Entry for July 4.

I’ve been on the run for about a month now. These guys keep finding me. How? Who the hell are they and what kind of reach do they have? The police have been useless – they want proof. Proof of what? All I saw was a machine gun at the bottom of a box of cabbage I was unloading at Rusty’s Pub. How was I supposed to know it was going to send me and my family off on a chase?

The hardest part is that I’m lonely. I don’t know who to trust. Just walking down the street looking for some food it seems like everyone’s trying to figure out if I’m the guy they’re looking for.

The only thing I can think of is to try to find out who these guys are and what they’re trying to do. If anyone finds this journal if I’m caught or dead, maybe they’ll be able to find someone at the police or FBI who will feel compelled to find out. In the meantime, my plan is to hide for a while until they stop looking for me. Then, I’ll go looking for them.

WndrngY said...

These people are from another planet!!!!!!!! Stepford children by day, drunken howler monkeys by night. Even the freaking principal is a joke. He told me first day that he doesn’t tolerate trouble makers in his school. You know why? Because I’m from California!! Seriously, the dickhead just assumed I was going to be a bad influence because I wasn’t born and raised right here in Bumfuck, South Carolina!
And then it turns out the precious angels I’m supposed to corrupt are a bunch of smoking, drinking, screwing around dumbasses who think a cow pasture is second only to a graveyard for partying. I hate this! And I hate having to pretend I don’t hate it to keep everyone happy. Forget it—I’m just going to write about tonight. I can’t deal with the rest of this shit.
I met this girl named Layla today. She said her parents named her after the Eric Clapton song. I didn’t know what the hell that meant, so I just smiled and nodded as usual, but I googled it when I got home—I’m guessing her parents want her to grow up to be a gold-digging adulterer. She’s cool, though. She invited me to go out with her friends tonight and I figured what the hell? It was better than sitting around listening to my grandmother outline how I’m related in some twisted, distant way to every halfway decent guy in this godforsaken school!
Anyway, turns out “going out” meant meeting up in a graveyard with Layla’s boyfriend, Chuck, her best friend, Lucilee, (I kid you not and Layla says she’ll cut a bitch for calling her Lucille), Brady, who is the younger brother of Lucilee’s college boyfriend, Benji, and this guy named Duffy. So, if you’re paying attention you see that I was the only available female with two available males. Which made me the newest hydrant in their pissing contest.
It’s all too stupid to contemplate. Brady is a tool. Duffy actually tried to kiss me by whispering “Be still. I just want to try one thing.” I think I spit on him a little when I started laughing.
But still, I went out tonight and Layla said we’re all going to Lake Hartwell Saturday to go water-skiing if the weather is nice. So I want to kill myself a little less than I did this morning. That’s progress, right?

Deniselle said...

5th of January
Why must I be so different? Why couldn't I be normal even in this one way? It's not fair!

I'm not asking to be cool, that would be too much. Or even pretty or popular; I've accepted that I'm ugly and unpopular and must live with that. I just want to be... like everybody else. But I'm not and I hate myself.

I hate myself and I wanna die.
Do I? Do I really?
I guess not. I wanna live, but not as myself. I wanna be someone else. Maybe Emily.

Oh Emily! Why don't you talk to me anymore? Why do you act like you hate me? I love you so much, Emily. My Emily. You were mine once, right?

My heart is broken. I always thought it'd be over a boy. If only it were over a boy, maybe I could go tell Mom about this and cry to her. I try to pretend everything is OK and she's oblivious. She thinks I'm the same I was a year ago, but I'm not. I'm miserable. I've never been this unhappy in my life.

Your long blond hair on the pillow. I watched you as you slept. If only I got one more sleepover! I'd watch you all night and never want the night to be over.

But I wouldn't try to touch you, now that I know you don't like it. I'm so sorry Emily.

We don't have to be girlfriends. I just want to be friends again.

Vivian Gray said...

September 15, 2009

Today was a day of revelations. My heart stood still as the truths of my life all disappeared with a few words from a letter. I was so excited to find out what was going on back home. We’d been away for so long. Aunt Sophie always had exciting things to talk about and funny stories to tell. So, what could it hurt to take a small peek at Dad’s letter? I just wanted to feel connected to the world back home in the US.

Aunt Sophie always folded her letters into three exact parts, sealing the front with a kiss. I unfolded the letter and read the words. Everything was her usual cheerful, joyous self until the bottom of the first page. The paragraph began, “Have you told her yet?” This peaked my interest; my curiosity will be the death of me one day. My tears smeared the ink as I finished the letter.

What my aunt was referring to, and what my Dad had not bothered to tell me in all my 14 years, was he was not my biological father. I’m a bastard! I couldn’t believe they lied to me all my life! Why had they kept this from me? Who was I really?

So many things made sense now, the way my Grandmother treated me, the reason I don’t look like anyone else in the family, and why I feel so different and alone even when people surround me constantly. Other things, things I’m not ready to put on paper, also made sense. At least, I wasn’t insane. What I felt was real. How dare they let me believe my thoughts were just an overactive imagination for so many years.

I have to find out who I really am and where I truly belong. It can’t be here with these people, my parents, who betrayed me. My heart broke in a thousand pieces today as the realization of my existence hit me. I was lied to by my parents and family, rejected by my biological father, and lost my identity all with the words from one short paragraph.

Today starts a new day, the day I begin to put the puzzles of my life back together. And this is the last day ANYONE hurts me again!


Wendy S said...

The test came out negative. Thank god! Who would've thought one stupid line could determine my whole future? I was so nervous I almost dropped the stick in the toilet. Then I would have had to go to a DIFFERENT drug store and buy a whole 'nother batch of stuff to cover up the fact that I was buying a p-test.

Now the biggie: should I break up with him now or after graduation? It's definitely not fun anymore, but they say that colleges look at your grades, and if there's a big drop, they will withdraw their offer to you. Noooo! That would be bad. Or if I lost my scholarship? Mom would fuh-lip out. Not to mention if she found out about HIM.

Back when he was Mr. Keller, he seemed like the nicest and fairest teacher in the whole school. But now that he's Tim, Timothy, I don't know. He just might drop a bad grade on me for breaking up with him. Say that my analysis of All the King's Men is off. Conveniently lose my Hamlet quiz.
GPA says hang in there. Heart says walk away.

God, I used to love saying his name. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy. Now I want to go back to him being Mr. Keller. And I want to go back to being super-boring, straight-A Jacey Fong.

Deniz Bevan said...

Here's mine, from a story that takes place in 1492:
Dear Diary,
Uncle San must have stood like this on the prow. Uncle San. What, am I supposed to start calling him Father? He’d have work to do anyway – hoisting sails, checking the wind, all those stories he used to tell. I thought he was brave and a hero – did he look at this same blue sky? this green water? the gulls... I heard them at home but never thought I’d hear them away from the land.
Home! How am I supposed to make one now? Who can I belong to?
Joseph down below; how strange that he should be seasick.
Oh. Must have inherited my seaward stomach from Uncle San. Father San. I should be retching down there along with Joseph and Arcturus. Or should I? What if San hadn’t lied to me – what if mother had not died – mother – what did she look like? – what if I was with San now on a ship, on *the* ship – well, they wouldn’t let me of course, but if I’d been a boy I could have.
If I’d been a boy. Should I have been proud, then, of my heritage? Like Joseph and his fascination with knights. Should I then have willingly put aside my links to the chosen people and accepted the duties of the Catholic faith? Would it have been easier...
Questions! Always questions! Falling one by one into the sea for the fish to eat them. I shall remain on this ship. I’ll not step off in Constantinople, but wait for it to turn round and begin the return journey. And sail and sail and sail... back and forth until San’s ship returns. Then I’ll walk the gangplank from one to the other and gather my fish questions in a net. And ask him for answers.
Or throw them at his head.

Haley said...

Dear Diary,
Oh God, it’s even lamer to write it than think it. “Dear Diary,” like I’m some love sick stupid girl with my pen and paper writing down my deepest thoughts and feelings. I hate those girls and swore to never be one, yet here I am. At least this diary doesn’t have flowers on it. At least Mrs. Ramsey knows me well enough not to give me one of those. But she says it will help, says it will help me “deal with my issues.” I don’t believe it, but I figure what else am I going to do. She said just sit down and write – don’t think, just write, non stop for 10 minutes. I guess I have to keep going. Doubt she’ll count this as an entry.
Ok, maybe I need to start over. A new approach. Dear Diary = lame, so I’ll try something else.
Dear Dude – no too burn out.
Dear Di – no too morbid.
Dear stupid journal Mrs. Ramsey is making me write (better),
Today sucked. Yesterday sucked, and I’m pretty sure tomorrow will suck too.
This definitely sucks, but I’m stuck. Ramsey says this should be easy. “You’re a writer,” she says. “You do this for fun,” she says. “It should come naturally.” Yeah right. Writing stories is NOTHING like this. In those I get to choose how people feel. I get to decide who says what. Most importantly, I get to decide what happens. Not like this. Here I just have to write how it is.
Well, here’s how it is. They say I have “anger issues,” that I can’t deal with problems in an “appropriate manner,” that I should “tell” someone how, not “show” them by breaking all the windows in their car and promising to do the same to their face. They say no matter how bad he hurt me, or how close the back stabbing bitch was to me, that I should be more mature about it – accept it. That’s bullshit. I don’t have “anger” issues, I have “my boyfriends sleeping with my best friend” issues. They’re totally different. I tried to rationalize it to the school, to Ramsey, to the police, but they all just said I was “digging a bigger hole,” and my defense only made my motive more realistic. That’s when I told them my motives were realistic as were my promises to them both. That’s when they said I got too close and cuffed me. How did they expect me to react? Turn around and say, “sure go ahead, cuff me, I’ll go quietly”? Don’t get me wrong, I know vandalism is a crime and threats are too, but cheating, lying boyfriends, and slutty ex best friends are no innocent angels. Luckily I guess for me, Ramsey got them to let me go to juve instead of real jail for the time being. One condition though – this stupid journal.
So what now? Sign it? Ok.
Sincerely this sucks!

Leasie said...

They say that you learn something every day. Well today I was blessed because I learnt two important things. Firstly Ashley Granger is an insignificant little spec not worth my time or effort. Secondly, perhaps that bed in Greylands would be nice after all. Diagnosis; severe lack of personality. It the yearbook I could see it now, most likely to be successful and yet most likely that nobody cares.

It all started with Ashley, for full notes on her turn back to the entry about two weeks ago and you’ll see exactly what I mean. From this day forward I shall refuse to even use her given name. She shall be the insignificant little spec not worth my time or effort (ILSNWMTOE for short) that is exactly what she deserves.

Today in English we were working on a group advertising project and she actually spoke to me. She said in her quite calm tone of voice that “She could be my friend if and only if I met the following conditions.” I should have known something was up then. But being what I would deem a decent sort of person I decided to hear her out. Her conditions were ridiculous; firstly and most outrageously I must cease all contact with Jennifer Crowley. Jenn was a good soul, she wanted to stay Switzerland in this mess and now that ILSNWMTOE wanted to commandeer MY friend.

Who did she think she was? Her logic is psychotic, oh poor Em, of course she won’t mind if I stab her in the back, steal her best friend and then offer her a thinly disguised insult in the form of an olive branch. I told her she was crazy. No way would I give up my friendship with Jenn for her. I’m only now realising how much of an insult that is to my intelligence. I mean Jenn and I are like two peas in a pod. It used to be three, but obviously she thought three was a crowd. She didn’t deserve us, but never would I tell a friend who they could or could not be friends with.

She snapped that I was being selfish and that she was trying to find some middle ground. And then something in me just snapped. In four years of high school I had not so much as got my name written on the board, let alone yelled at someone. That changed today my fists grabbed onto the desk next to her. It was empty, but I toppled it sidewards until it was on an angle. She smirked at me, and I wasn’t going to do it, but she had it coming I pushed the desk into hers and snapped “Yeah, well you’re a bitch.” I turned around without another thought. The class suddenly became very quiet and I realised they saw me differently, I wasn’t quiet anymore. I was like a bomb, they were waiting to see when I would go off next. It felt good

Becky said...

Dear Diary,

I want a baby.

I’m so not the type to say that. The amount of people that would be shocked, horrified, disbelieving if I told them what it is I really want. I’ve never said it aloud; never written it down before.

First off, I’m sixteen. Not ‘only sixteen’, because I don’t think age is really an issue, but I know that would be the first problem for most people if they found out I want to be a mum now. Want to be pregnant, have a baby, be the child’s sole carer.

Oh, yeah, there’s no man in my life. It’s not that I’m hopelessly in love with some teenage guy and we have romanticised views of starting a family now, young parents, perfection. Nor do I have a failing relationship that I think will be saved by creating a little bundle of joy that is part me and part him.


And that’s not even the half of it. I’m not the type who has a baby at sixteen. I know I shouldn’t stereotype, believe that some people are more likely to get pregnant that others, but that’s the truth and we all know it. I don’t come from a broken home, I don’t feel I need to make up for my parents’ mistakes by being the best parent ever. I’d say I’m middle class, live with mum, dad, younger sister, a cat and a dog. I’ve never been abused, never really been bullied, haven’t lost anyone close to me or had a problem with drink or drugs.

I’ve actually never even had sex.

I know. Makes my whole claim about wanting a baby seem a little ridiculous, doesn’t it?

Don’t think I don’t know that. Are there more reasons why my parents would be shocked , my friends horrified and my teachers disbelieving? I’m a straight A student. No, scratch that, straight A* student. As are all my friends. I’m being told to apply to Oxford, Cambridge, that I can achieve a first at university and go on to do great things. A levels, I’m told, will be harder than my current studies, but my teachers don’t think I’ll struggle too much. 4 As, A*s if they bring them in before I finish.

There’s no ‘if’ about this, only ‘when’. When I go to sixth form, when I go to university, when I have a high-flying career. I’m not asked if I want to do these things, it’s taken as given that I will. People my age don’t talk about families, children, settling down. If they do it’s in their late twenties, thirties, late thirties sometimes.

I’m the odd one out. And it’s not that I think it will be easy, or that I want a house and benefits. I know it’s going to be difficult.

But I can’t help how I feel. I can’t make that feeling wait, or go away, or tell it that I’m too young.

I just want a baby.

Liz S said...

Paris, November 2005

Right now, at this very moment, I'm sitting on a bench near the Champ de Mars, watching a peace demonstration. I feel like I should be over there, too, standing next to Pierre, waving those damn white flags and yelling "We want equality, no more violence!" but at the same time I know that Pierre's kinda right. I don't belong there. Just like I don't belong in France.

But still! Pierre knew I wanted to go, knows I want to understand. Yet, he left my grandmother's flat without me, telling my grandmother he was all worried about how I've been acting. If he only knew the half of it.

And when I caught up to him? The jerk barely looked at me when he said, "This isn't your battle." He even had the balls to tell me that I should just go back to my grandmother's. As if I needed his protection now of all times.

I left him alone, anyway. What could I do? And that's when I noticed all the cops. Their blue vans lined the streets around the park. One even came up to me, asking to look in my purse. That's what I get for tearing through the park like a banshee, all to catch up with a guy who doesn't want to deal with me right now.

But that's the thing, what I keep going back to. I know he's right, even though I won't ever, ever admit it to him. He's lived this his whole life, dealing with Parisians who won't accept him and his immigrant family. And then here I come, just this silly American girl, plopping down in Paris, and whining about wanting to know more about my dead mother.

I know nothing. Nothing about all the riots anyways. And nothing about my French family. No one wants to talk, and it's driving me NUTS.

He doesn't know the half of it, either. Not when it comes to me anyway. Grandmother and him got sooo worried when I left the flat without telling anyone where I was going and disappeared for awhile. They'd totally flip if they knew what I did, too. Took the train all by my lonesome out to Caen. I needed to be there. Needed to find where an old relative of mine used to live, way back at the start of the revolution. My mom admired her, and I flipping latched onto that, way more than I know I should.

And don't get me started on what I keep imagining, that I've been time-travelling, going back to the French Revolution, flipping becoming Charlotte Corday. I know I'm losing it. I should talk to someone. But I don't want anyone to think I'm crazy.

Pierre's walking this way again, a white flag dangling from his fingertips. He's frowning. Is it wrong that I'm glad that he's not unhappy with me, but really more with all these riots?

I'll write more later, when it's safe.

psalmsofthelamb said...

It’s been a No Good, Very Bad, Horrible Day again.

(However, it’s an improvement from the Day So Awful It Can’t Be Spoken Of).

I tried to make it a Good Day, but everything I seem to try just made things worse.

To start with-and don’t you dare tell my secrets, journal-I followed him to school. I figured that since I’m invisible to him anyway, it wasn’t like he’d notice. That and he was too busy stopping every now and then to give her a kiss. It took fifteen minutes to get to school when it’s a five minute walk!

It was so gross to watch. I mean, really, who wants to share spit with another person? And yet this guy is so cute that I’m sure I wouldn’t mind too much…

We were almost to the front of the school when I tripped over a large crack in the sidewalk, stumbling forward, and almost plowed right into them. Luckily-and this is the only good luck today-Luckily I did not. I did, however, glance up to see her leaning against him and laughing. He looked over, and seeing me, started laughing too.


I blushed-and blushing for me is turning almost instantly red all over my face and neck-and pushed myself up, without realizing my skirt was caught on the edge of the curb.

I heard a large rrip! And looked to see that a large part of my skirt was torn. It was my only beautiful skirt! And I had ruined it. There was now a slit from my ankle to the top of my knee.

She stated laughing even harder, and when I tried to hold my skirt together to walk past them, I heard a small click.

No no and no.


My picture was all over the school before lunch.

I was late to class, too, journal, and-

"Ow! Aw, man..."

-sorry, journal. I know mud isn’t your thing. It isn’t mine either. But we’ll just have to get him and her back, won’t we?

I’m sure his girlfriend at college would be glad to see them together. That would be worth a few more shoves, I think.

Maybe even another picture.

anonymouslover said...

Are you there, God?

I’ve been calling out to you with no response, where are you?

Dad just got out of the mental ward at the hospital the other day-he’d been there for two weeks. When people noticed my dad’s absence and started asking questions I told them he was visiting family in the Midwest. What am I supposed to tell them- the truth? That dad had a breakdown and in a fit of rage would have hit my mother if I had not stepped in between them and received the blow myself? When he came home he called a family meeting in the living room and as my brother and I gathered at the end of the dining room table, using it as a shield between us, he apologized. He was crying-I’ve never seen him cry before. My mother forgives him because she says he’s sick and has something called bipolar disorder. Right now I can’t forgive him. I’m still uneasy around him.

Just a few weeks ago Jeff tried to kill himself. We were at my house and I had just broken up with him because I wasn’t ready to lose my virginity or “fool around” like other girls my age, although really it was because I want to go places in my life and don’t want to end up in a dead-end relationship or get pregnant right out of high school like mom. He did not take the news well- he went to the trunk of his car and pulled out his gun. My dad and his friend were able to intervene and got him to calm down. They found out that not only had I just broken up with him but his grandfather had passed away earlier in the day. I broke up with him unknowingly on the same day his grandfather died. He was going to end his life because of me. I have to live with that for the rest of my life.

When people look at me they see a pretty, well-liked, straight-A student with a bright future ahead. They see a happy and talented girl who participates in multiple extracurricular activities and works part-time in the evenings. They don’t see the girl with a tear-stained pillow every night, the girl who wishes for her freedom from this small hick town. They don’t see the burdens I carry and the home life I despise. They don’t hear the fights, or see my sister sneaking out of the house to go drink and have sex with her boyfriend. They don’t know that I hate my mother and have no idea why. They don’t see me questioning my life, my relationships with family and friends, or my religion. They see what I want them to see- an all-American girl who always has a smile on her face.

Just wanted to let you know this will be my last time contacting you. I have no place for faith in my life anymore.

Mim said...

Dear Diary:

As far as birthdays go, today sucked. Sweet sixteen should involve boys and kisses and parties. Not a zombie that wandered into the compound. I heard him shuffle past me in the hall and I started after him. He was in the kitchen where everyone was gathered getting the big dinner ready for my celebration. No one had noticed him, but he did manage to pick up a knife.

I was quick. It wasn’t my first zombie, and there’s no doubt that it won’t be my last. But he slashed my cheek before I was able to take him all the way down. The rest of the evening was spent stitching me up and everyone else worried that I might get infected. At least that would add some excitement to my life.

I wish that I could out of this compound. I know that there are places where people actually live in a normal city. That the guards and systems that are in place make it possible to live like all the books I’ve read about. And I’ve made friends online. I’ve heard about it. I don’t get why I’m stuck here. Being the only child in the entire compound sucks. It’s time to let me grow up.

But every time I try to talk to my dad about that he mutters something about keeping me safe from “them” and that’s that. It’s not like we don’t have our own share of zombie issues here. I doubt that it’s anymore dangerous in the city. I just don’t get it.

At least my friends all sent me birthday messages. Jason and I even did a video chat. I think that I might not be sweet sixteen if I lived near Jason. I’ve got to convince my dad to take me into the city, even if it’s just for a little while. I can’t handle being trapped anymore. It’s time to start living my life.


Wordy Birdie said...

Random Wed., late Sep. Who cares what date? It’s day 11 of 90—that’s all that matters.

I’m staring out across the salt pond through “my bedroom” window from “my desk” in Max’s house. Another ragged V of geese is honking across the sky—like a bunch of amateur bugle players warming up, or some hyperventilating yodelers. Like my new nitwit semi-stepbrother—when he thinks no one is listening—singing to his stupid, stinking ferrets.

Bloody hell. More Canada geese? As if I haven’t had enough of them today.

Fact: Branta canadensis can travel a 1000 km in a single fall day. Mum and I flew nearly 17,000. Jet leg lasts one day for every time zone you cross. We crossed ten, so I’m only just barely over it. And did you note that? I no longer say ‘autumn,’ but ‘fall.’ Not only have I already changed my body clock, but I’m learning a new language, too. Like any smart organism I’m adapting. Evolving. Surviving.

If all goes well with Mum’s fluffy new American Ultra-boyfriend, we may soon be what the United States government calls “Resident Aliens”—but aliens no less. Meep-meep, I come in peace! Take me to your leader! Still, if history has anything to say about it, Mum and Max, this most recent ‘soul mate’ will last no more than the length of our tourist visas. And then, just like those geese out there, Mum and I will be flying far, far away. Home.

This is not “my” home—despite what Max might say. And, until our ninety days run out, I’m a stranger in Point Harriet, “Chowda Capital of the Ocean State.” I might as well be by the seashore on a planet in a galaxy far away. Here we’ve crashed, and here I’m trapped, alone—already an outcast.

Kate said...

Lady Gaga,

She said she was leaving. She said she was going to go to New York and join a band and I can come and visit. But I don’t want that. I don’t want it. I want her to be here, with me, to go to prom and and keep going to GSA meetings and keep dating me. I want to be able to talk to her about how horrible Pat’s being and how much the Twitlings are annoying me. And I know I can call her or something, but it’s not the same. And you know it, too.

She’s leaving. And there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say or anything. I want her to be happy, I guess, and I want her to be safe. I mean, if that can’t happen here, then it has to happen somewhere, right? She’d be doing what she loves. Pursuing her dreams.

I hate wanting her to stay so bad because I know she has to go. I know it’s so selfish and childish and rude and all the thousands of other things I hate being. But I can’t help it. I keep thinking about when we started talking about songs and she suggested “Nineteen” (the one by Tegan and Sara?). I feel like she knew something I didn’t. Like she kept something from me. I hate her for it. I hate her for knowing and not telling me, for doing this to me. But I can’t hate her forever. I love her too much. “I felt you in my legs, before I ever met you…” I felt her. I feel her. I can’t -- I won’t -- just forget about her.

I have “Nineteen” on repeat, now. It’s played a billion times. “And now we’re saying bye, bye, bye…” I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I. Hate. It. And there’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop. I wish this had never happened, and I wish I could just turn back time and punch Pat in the face when he suggested I get a girlfriend, and I wish she never had to leave, and I wish she never got suspended, and I wish a million things. I wish I could change everything. I wish we didn’t have to say “goodbye”. I wish I had never fallen in love.

Do you think that would help, Lady Gaga? Not loving? I don’t even know. All I know is that I can’t stop crying, and I can’t stop feeling like my heart is being torn from my body every second, and that tomorrow I have to say goodbye, and after she steps on the bus, I’m probably never going to see her again.

I don’t even think “Just Dance” can help me now,

Anita said...

So last week Mom made me go with her to Uncle Larry’s house. She said she wouldn’t take me shopping unless we stopped there first. The guy is such a loser. He lost his job like a year ago and still won’t get off his fat ass and find another one. Anyway, Mom brought him this baked chicken dish he loves (tastes like crap if you ask me) and they were sitting there talking about all this boring stuff, so I went to the bathroom to escape the talking, talking, TALKING and Uncle Larry’s b.o. The bathroom still smelled like b.o., but I found something interesting there…girlie magazines inside the cabinet. The photos were CRAZY. I haven’t seen as much of MY body as I saw of some of those chicks. Even freakier than the photos were the stories…all this fantasy crap. One of them was about a girl in a tight sweater saying she was feeling hot and then just taking off her sweater and she was wearing a skimpy little tank underneath, and I was all like, “I can do that.” So after we left Uncle Loser’s, Mom and I went to the mall and I bought this turtleneck sweater from the end-of-season clearance rack for 75% off. The next day, I wore it to school with a tank underneath, even though it was almost 80 degrees outside. After school, at band practice, I was standing near a group of guys who were talking about video games, and I just sorta casually said, “It is soooo hot in here,” and then I took out my ponytail and swung my hair around a little bit (like I practiced in front of the mirror) and then I pulled my sweater over my head and then swung my hair around some more. The guys totally stopped talking about video games and just STARED at me. And then I walked off.

Does that make me a slut?

Alpha-Mom said...

January 6, 2010

So, listen, Diary. Until just about five minutes ago, I thought that yesterday’s drama would hands down win the Worst Day Ever award. I mean, finding out that your boyfriend stupidly downloaded your top-secret, super-sexy Victoria’s Secret lingerie photos from his phone in the school computer lab, and Rachel Lane, who at the age of 17 already qualifies for the lifetime achievement award for World’s Biggest Bitch, just HAPPENED to see, and retrieved said photos from the computer’s temporary internet files and emailed them to the ENTIRE student body under the equally humiliating moniker “jessicathinksshessexy @,” is beyond BAD.

But when your MOTHER finds out about said photos when the Platteville Police show up and interrupt your family dinner because they’ve seized six of your top-secret, super-sexy lingerie pictures, including the one where the lace of your bra just happened to slip so that a hint of your nipple shows in a very provocative manner, which apparently is considered child pornography even though you’re 17 and clearly, from said photos, not a child?

Let’s just say that tonight’s scene in the living room just obliterated the competition. Not only did Mom give me three consecutive “grounded for life” sentences, I have an appointment at the police station tomorrow with Mom and Mom’s cousin Harry, who is a corporate tax attorney (and a total dweeb and the last person on the planet I want looking at my sexy photos, btw. I mean, that’s the grossest part of this whole thing!) because they want me to tell them who I sent the pictures to.

And now I’m like totally scared. I mean, I’ve watched Law and Order, and I know they can just get a court order to look at my phone records or something. But Mom wants me to -rat-out-my-boyfriend- do the right thing and confirm that it was Adam who started this whole mess. And I don’t care that she’s going to take away my cell phone and my iPod if I don’t tell. I’m not giving Adam up to the cops. He’s dumb, not criminal. I am not about to send my boyfriend to jail. I am pretty sure that’s a break-up-able offense.

Also, I wouldn’t put it past her to come in here after I go to sleep--like I’ll be able to sleep with all this mess hanging over my head-—and look for you, dear Diary. So now I have to figure out where to hide you. Oh God, she’s screaming at me to come downstairs again. The cops must be gone. Wish me luck, Diary. I’m totally going to need it.

maryluv said...

Lucy’s Diary

3rd Feb 2009
I’m so nervous; I should hear from the modelling agency today! Did they like my pictures? Do I look okay? It’s been so hard not knowing these past few weeks since I entered the competition.

Wow, the letter has come...and guess what...I GOT IN. They really like my pictures, and, if I’m lucky enough, my dream can start here...

They want to see me next week so I should go and find a good outfit...first impressions are really important, oh, and I should go and call Amy, she’s been waiting to hear from me. Speak tomorrow.

10th Feb 2009
Wow, the girls and women here here all so skinny and really pretty, I’m definitely bigger than them, and so not as pretty. They are looking at me in a funny way. There are a few girls my age standing and talking. Wait, they are coming over to me:
“So, what’re you called then?” says one, I’m too scared to answer.
“Hey, you there, I’m speaking to you, what’s your name?”
“Lucy eh? That’s a bit...common. I’m Shaana, this is Kiya and this is Neive.” You don’t look skinny enough to be a model...”
They all turn and strut off laughing! Why don't they like me? Am I too fat? Is that why?
We are being called in now.

Wow, that was the toughest day I’ve ever had. Maybe I should start dieting a bit. Mum says I am already skinny, but I don’t think so. Yeah, I’ll cut out all chocolate, that’ll help me lose weight, I’ll cut out cheese and stuff too.
I can’t wait to see Amy again; I haven’t seen her for ages! She called me earlier, she’s so much fun, she completely made me forget about Shaana, Kiya and Neive. She’s like that, Amy is, and she’s a real good friend, not fake, like those girls at the agency. Right, I’m gonna go to bed now, all that modelling really tires you out, I’ll just call Amy first though...

11th Feb 2009
I never knew not eating any sugar or anything could be so hard! It feels good though to know I’m losing weight.I might try and cut something else, maybe carbohydrates, yes, no pasta or bread or anything. My goal is 4 pounds by Monday. Amy’s coming today to help me pick out another outfit, wait, she’s here now, gotta go, cya.

Amy says I’m not as fun anymore...just because I didn’t want to go out shopping or for a bike ride, the truth is, I’m really tired, even though I slept for ages last night. All I’ve been eaten for the last 24 hours is yoghurts and green pepper. I’m hungry, but I’ve eaten all the yoghurts so I’m just gonna go to bed Maybe I won’t be hungry in the morning. Night.

14th Feb 2009
I managed to lose 4 pounds! I’m so happy with myself, I’m on my way to the modelling agency now. Mum isn’t speaking to me cause she’s mad that I want to lose weight, I’ll deal with her later, right now, all that matters is my career. Shaana and that are here, they’re walking over to me,

Cin said...

I can’t believe that they bought me underwear for Christmas!
It’s not like I can exactly write a letter to Santa here, but I mentioned at least 500 times that all I wanted for Christmas was an iPod. Sure, I wanted a iPod touch, but I know money is tight. Isn’t it always?
So I told Mom I’d be ok with just a little iPod shuffle. And I got SOCKS! Mom had that look in her eyes again, the one that makes me feel guilty for not being happy for the little things, so I said thank you and tried to act like everything I ever wanted was plain white underwear and socks.
It’s not like I’m exactly Miss Popularity around here anyway, but granny panties? Really, Mom? I know you were young once upon a time.
What am I gonna tell Brittany when she calls later?
She’ll want to tell me about all the great stuff her dad sent her from New York. Last year, he sent her all those great clothes and her iPhone. He’ll want to make up for not seeing her all year and send her something really extravagant again. About five minutes into the conversation after she’s done bragging, she’ll casually ask what I got. No way to deflect it. Better have my answer figured out before she calls.
She offered to let me wear that little red dress she got for Christmas last year to Brad’s New Year’s Eve party. I think it’s because it won’t fit her anymore. That, and when she gets drunk she can make some comment about me wearing hand-me downs.
Why exactly is she my best friend?
Oh, right, because no one else even likes me. Just ask and she’ll tell me so.
I can’t believe Todd asked her to go to the winter formal.
“I told him no, because I know you like him.” She sounded so freakin’ smug! I should have said he asked her because everyone knows she puts out. I guess I’m a better friend than that. I just thought it real loud.
I think I will borrow her dress for the party. When she rubs my nose in the fact that it was hers, I’ll just tell people that she was too fat to wear it.
I will stand up for myself this time. I WILL.
Now, what exactly to say about those Christmas presents…

Writer Robyn said...

Day 3

Or third day of the worst family vacation ever. Mom thinks it’s a good idea for us to write down our memories from these stupid trips every summer but I would rather not remember it. This totally sucks. Every year we rent this crappy RV and drive somewhere lame. This year it’s Yellowstone. It’s so boring. I’m supposed to write down any wild life I see but the only thing wild I can remember is the huge rack on that chick at the last gas station. I hope Mom doesn’t read this. I’m pretty sure she won’t. For how annoying she is she always respects my privacy. I think she read that in one of her 500 parenting books or something.

At least journal time is the one time when Carla and Julie stop arguing. They drive me nuts. Thank God for my iPod. When I have my headphones on no one bothers me. They’re not the sweet Bose ones or anything but they’re pretty good. I think I’ll ask for those for my birthday. Only 2 more months until the big day and then Freedom! When I get my license I’ll be so stoked. I would ask for a car for my birthday but I know that’s not going to happen. I’ll have to share the Celica with my stupid sister. Yeah right. Like she’s ever going to let me drive it. Hopefully Dad will stick up for me. He did buy it and even though my sisters get everything they want, I’m pretty sure he’ll help me out when it comes to that. He’s pretty fair about stuff like that. And I have my skate. At least Mom let me bring it on this trip. It was pretty awesome getting hassled by that rent-a-cop at the rest stop when I was grinding that curb. He thought he was so tough. I could have totally taken him down with one roundhouse kick to the head. Haha! That would have been so rad.

It’s so not fair, Brenden’s family rents a house at the beach for a week and he gets to check out hot chicks and surf. I’m stuck here listening to everyone complain the whole time. At least Carla will be leaving for college soon. Woo hoo! She never shuts up. She does have some pretty hot friends so I don’t mind when they hang around the house. Brenden’s such a pervert though, he’s always trying to pick up on Julie. It makes me want to kick his ass sometimes. He thinks he’s so cool with his gross mustache. I just want to take a razor and shave that thing off. Who does he think he is, Magnum PI? No way he’s as cool as that dude.

Oh sweet, looks like Dad’s pulling in to one of those big old truck stops for gas. I’m gonna go see if they have old school Pac Man. Peace out!

Ali Dawn said...

I'm mortified. I can't believe I 'made out' with IT. I can't even say IT's name without getting cold chills. What was I thinking?

Now, IT's gonna want to call me or actually go out with me. No Way! I can't go to school tomorrow. IT'll find me and talk to me. In front of everyone. Everyone will know!!!!

I should have known not to go off with Cheryl and Tammy. Nothing good ever comes from it. "IT" hahaha. The guys say all girls look the same in the dark. So how freakin' dark was it, you ask? Pretty dang dark is all I got to say.

Stu thought he was so darned funny. What's the difference in a fox and a dog? About three beers. HA!!! Try six! Too damn many. I swear I'll never drink again. I swear. Just make it all go away!!!!

Harmony said...

Dear Diary,

He broke up with me today. I'm such a fool. I should've seen it coming. The signs were all there.

Though maybe, maybe I did see it coming though. Last night, he was acting SO weird. He wouldn't touch me, didn't want to hold my hand. I asked him what was wrong, asked him if it was something I did, but he shook his head and said he was just having a bad day. And I believed him, even when there was no goodnight kiss and my stomach grew tight with worry, even when I woke up by myself this morning and not to a "goodmorning" text from him.

I don't know what to do. I feel so...empty and I just can't stop crying. I swore I'd never be one of those girls to cry over a stupid boy. But these tears won't stop. It may have only been two weeks but it feels like it was all my life.

God. I sound so dramatic. This is ridiculous. He's just a boy. I will NOT cry over him. If he doesn't know that I was the best thing that happened to him, then he's not worth my time. Screw him.

But. I miss him. So badly. THIS. SUCKS.

The words keep running through my head. I swear, "I don't feel about you like I should" are the worst words than can come after "Can we talk?".

Crap. Someone's coming.


KM Fawcett said...

January 5, 2010

Dear Journal,

High school is high risk. And where there’s risk, you’ll find a guy like me.

That’s right. A guy. Flesh and blood, baby.

Being human is sweet. There’s hockey, iTunes and sloppy Joes with tater tots. Oh, and something else my world doesn’t have, friends. Only, I gotta watch that. I can’t get too attached to anyone. How weird would it be if I had to harvest a buddy’s soul or something? Not cool.

Then there’s Penny. With her long, dark hair and bright, green eyes that light up every time I pass her in the hall. If I were mortal, I could be so into her. Get this, I overheard her telling her friend that she thought I was hot. It made me laugh considering I’m an entity born of fire and brimstone.

I am an Angel of Death.

Well, at least I will be once I earn my wings.

But first, I’ve gotta pass my finals. Which is why I’m here. Let’s face it, high school’s one big ass trough of temptation. Throw in the teenage “I’m invincible” attitude, add a little parental and social peer pressure and no wonder it’s fodder for self-destruction. Drunk driving, overdose, suicide, eating disorders, teen abortion, gang fights and lets not forget the effed-up kid stockpiling guns and PVC pipe bombs in his basement.

Hell, high school’s a popular hangout for my kind.

So who’s it gonna be this time? The druggie? Geek? Prom queen? Quarterback? Band fag? Or maybe just your everyday, run of the mill average student. Hell, it could be anyone. At any time. Maybe even the kid who tripped me in Chemistry.

Yeah right. I don’t have the power to kill. I’m not a reaper. That’s Grim’s job. I just gotta be there when they die so I can harvest the soul and guide it to the netherworld. I provide safe passage. Sounds easy, right?

The only problem is that a Keres is here too. When I first saw her, I was like WTF? She might have fooled them with her virginal face and effervescent personality. But she didn’t fool me. I know that wrapped inside that tight Abercrombie hoodie is a psychopomp for violent death.

She recognized me too. Called me Midwife to the Dying. Bitch. She knows I hate that. So, I’m peaceful death. Sue me.

Anyway, not only do I have to figure out which kid is Grim’s candidate and be there when he reaps, now I have to collect that soul before Keres does. This is one pass/fail test I just have to ace.

So listen up Class of 2010, forget worrying about the next party. Forget worrying about where you rate on the coolness scale. Forget worrying about who will escort you to prom and start worrying about who will escort you to the underworld. Because one of you won’t be making it to graduation.

Michael Thanatos - Angel of Death

Shannon said...

Dear Lily,

It’s been three months. Despite everything you promised me, it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’ve done everything you asked me to: I went back to school; I went to the winter dance with Jason; I even changed my look. I no longer have blonde hair – it’s now cut short into a bob and colored dark brown. But nothing has changed. I still can’t get over the fact that you are no longer here.

When you told me you were sick, I thought I would have time to prepare myself. I read all the books about dealing with grief and loss, but can I tell you? No book could accurately describe the pain and the anger that you really feel when your twin sister dies at fifteen – not a single book in this whole damned world. Even now, I can’t find the appropriate words that can precisely relay how I feel.

Defeated… Lost... Hurt... I give up – I don’t know how else to try and explain it.

There is no book available in the market that can really teach you how to get over whatever it is I’m feeling right now either. And believe me, I’ve read every single book I could find. Even online, there’s no such book. They all just give you a bunch of fancy buzz-words to make it seem like they know what they are talking about. They don’t.

Over the past three months I have woken up every single morning feeling worse. When you died, the most part of me died too and I can’t seem to find a way to resurrect myself. I get up, do stuff, but I’m not living. I go to school but my heart is not in it. It’s almost like some bland, mundane soul has taken over my body. This isn’t me, and I have no idea if I’ll ever be me again.

Mom’s not doing any better either. She hasn’t spoken a word to Dad since your funeral and I haven’t seen her eat anything. She stays in bed all day and hasn’t turned up for work since the day you died in her arms. She didn’t even bother to tell her boss that she quit. I’m really worried for her. She’s taken up drinking again after being sober for eleven years. She’s fallen off the wagon and there’s nothing I can do but clean up the empty bottles in her room when she passes out.

I don’t want to sound like I’m blaming you because I’m not. I know it wasn’t your fault – who wants to get leukemia and die, right? But I feel like I need someone or something to blame so at least there’s an outlet for all this anger and disappointment. But who and what do I blame?

You said it would get easier; you said life would go on. I want to believe you – I really do – but it’s getting harder and harder every day.

Love, Lucy.

shimes06 said...

I am so stupid
Why did I think today would be any different than every other goddamn day at that goddamn school?
That asshole Ashton and his asshole buddies.
Well, there was something different today. Instead of the usual tripping and and shoving, captain douche brought out the name calling!
Faggot. Gay boy. Queer. Those particular vocabulary words are more matched to his IQ level.
Him and his friends. Of course he sees them as his “entourage”, not that I believe for a second he knew that word on his own, he got it from that TV show.
Why do they always single me out? I never did anything to them.
So what if I don’t spend every afternoon walking around with them posturing and posing. So what if I can’t play basketball. Or baseball. Or any other sport?
I know I can kick all of their asses at playing the saxophone or composing music on the piano. I can quote the hell out of Dante, and Tolkien. They wouldn’t even know the difference between Bach and Beethoven for christ’s sake.
But all that doesn’t do me any good right here, right now. They are still lords in our mini kingdom, so what they say goes. Everyone follows them like sheep.
But I’ve had it. I can’t take anymore!
I’m not tough enough to fight any of them, and I know if I tried, I’d be taking on ALL of them.
Just a sec…my mom is calling me.
Oh god, why can’t my mom leave me alone?? She always has to ask me “what’s wrong, what’s wrong” and “are those kids bullying you? Just stand up for yourself” and my personal favorite “you are such a bright boy, don’t worry about what other kids say”.
Really???? Don’t worry about what other kids say?? And how precisely do I go about doing that Mom? I’m used to being different, I like that I’m smarter than most, and more talented. But this is HIGH SCHOOL. What other kids say is what dictates how people treat you. And right now, thanks to Ashton, I can’t even walk down the hall or into the cafeteria without someone knocking things out of my hand, or putting their foot out, throwing stuff at me, or laughing at me.
So, now what? I’ve looked back over my journal entries and all I see is Ashton’s name. Over and over. Day after day.
There has to be something I can do.
This is going to end. Tomorrow.

Sean D. Young said...

February 21, 2011

“I’m in a fight!” A fight with my emotions that I feel I’m loosing. I never thought I would lose at anything. Me… Alexandra Hartford.
Its prayer time and I can’t hold back my tears. Maybe if I close my eyes that will keep them inside.
People are going to think I’m really into the words of Pastor Kendrick’s powerful prayer.
But to be honest; I don’t have a clue as to what he’s talking about. I’ve never in my life been without food, water or shelter.
See, for the past eleven years, Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Henry has given me everything I want.
I should have listened to Aunt Cynthia when she told me that eavesdropping is bad for your health. She’s said it to me several times not to do it, but last night, I couldn’t help myself.
Now, I understand why she said told me not to because I really feel bad right now.
Last night, I overheard… well, let me tell the truth… I eavesdropped on Aunt Cynthia talking to one of the mother’s at our church.
I knew Mother Owens was a gossip, but last night she proved it, because Aunt Cynthia cried to that woman for almost twenty minutes. I really wish I could have heard what she was saying on the other end.
Really, I don’t need to know what she was saying, because I got an ear full just listening to what my aunt was saying. I still can’t believe the things Aunt Cynthia said to that woman about my mother.
See, me and my momma have been living with Aunt Cynthia and her husband Henry since I was three. I’ve never questioned Aunt Cynthia why. Everything seemed normal, but now I guess I have to wonder. Does my mother being sick have anything to do with it?
I wonder if I can catch what my mother has? What is Bi-Polar Disorder? How long has my mother had it? Why didn’t Aunt Cynthia tell me what was going on a long time ago? I need some answers, but how do I find them?

Sharon Mayhew said...

Here is an 483 word journal entry from the YA I'm writing:

Tuesday, December 17th
Journal entry 269

He hit me! I can’t believe it! He hit me! I’m not even sure why. We were having lunch at the Student Union. Laila came by and said Scott’s having a party Friday night. Alec said we might go. I pouted a bit and he said we’d go. Laila asked if I wanted to go shopping after class tomorrow to get something hot to wear to the party. I said sure. Lord knows I need something to help me look hot. Alec’s the best looking guy on campus. It’s hard to believe that he’s with me. Plain, boring, clumsy me…

When we got in his Tahoe his face changed, his eyes got small and I swear his pupils shrunk and turned black. He was like really pissed off. When I asked him what was wrong, he just glared at me. Then he reared back and slapped me across the face. “You better not show up looking like some kind of whore Friday!” he said. My face was stinging. I started crying. I told him I wouldn’t and that he could come with us if he wanted to make sure I looked okay. He told me no, but I better make a good choice. I should have asked him when I’ve ever dressed like a whore, but I didn’t want to make him madder.

I kept waiting for him to say he was sorry, but he didn’t. I’m really worried about what I should do tomorrow. Do I buy something plain and boring to make him happy? Do I buy something that makes me look good? What if I get it wrong? What’s he going to do if I’m wearing something that he thinks is too hot?

So, what do I do now? I’ve been in love with Alec since the beginning of our senior year. He’s always treated me like a princess. Maybe this was just some kind of lapse. Maybe semester tests are stressing him out. There has to be a good reason for him hitting me, maybe I wasn’t dressed right when we went out last Saturday night.

I can’t tell anyone he hit me. No one would believe it anyway. He’s always calm, cool and collected. If I told Laila she would freak. She’d tell me to dump his lil’ white ass. Then where would I be? I would be the same old boring me…but alone. When he calls tonight, I’ll ask him how his day went and see if he wants to come over to watch CSI. Maybe he’ll come over and bring flowers or something and tell me how sorry he is for what happened in the car. He’s got to be sorry, doesn’t he? I’m sure it won’t happen again. He’s never hurt me before. Well, that one time in the woods. But that doesn’t count, it was an accident.

 Marissa

Dahle Pinata said...

Dear Diary,
i.e., Shelly Belly:

You wouldn't believe it! You'd have to come back from the dead to believe it. I really wish you would though. Nothing is the same without you. It's been a year and I still can't get the accident out of my head. He's in jail now. Anyway! Mr D. really did get that tattoo he promised he'd get if we raised enough money for the cancer foundation. Our D.C. class trip was a huge bummer without you, but Tommy managed to cheer me up with his quirky side. When did he ever fail to do that? He's the dorkiest guy I know and NO I will not ask him on a date! If ever I am going to make it to celebrity status, he is not the guy I want to make it there with. Why, you ask? Oh Shelly! Did you have to introduce us? He's so annoying, but it's still great that he never leaves my side for anything but detention. Such a goody goody! He'll skip class for me, but he won't bail on detention! Who does that? In fact, it was a said Taco Bell expedition--oops did I just write that--it's so something Tommy would say. He's such a dictionary. So, yes, we made it to the great Taco Bell lunch hour which resulted in said detention. You'll cry tears when I get the chance to tell you in person with wacky bravado and all the head-bobbing, “Night at the Roxbury”-drama I can dish out. Hopefully, this year will be the best yet, even without you Shel. I'll try to have some fun. Don't hold it against me. I'm human.

Did I mention Fig is on house arrest. Lame! Can't the guy find anything better to do than get caught dealing. It used to be fun visiting him, now he can't even chase me out of his own house when I pull a joke on him—which I love doing. Now all that's left to do in the year is pretend Joe really is the ideal boyfriend even though I'm paying for his prom ticket. He still doesn't have a car. I'm pretty sure he'll be driving us there in my parents Volvo. It's that, or I'll be riding his Trek mountain bike handle bars. All. The. Way. There. Not likely! Ugh! Did he have to drop out? Technically, it's my fault. I told him not to show up for just me. “Do the work or drop out!” Ugh! So far, lunch without him is a bummer mainly because I don't know where to sit despite knowing most everyone-jocks, freaks, preps—I fit in everywhere, and yet, don't belong with any of them. That's what I get for being so “well-rounded”. Am I? Thanks for listening to me whine and rant. Any chance you'll come down and do the same? Eating M&M's at the movie theater without you isn't as fun as I thought it'd be.



JillinPC said...

Five Days After. . . .

Today, I finally got to see him. He wasn’t there. I mean the part that makes him David wasn’t there. His body was. They had him in a black suit. As if he would wear anything remotely like it. Why do they do that? Bury people in suits? It should be a law that everyone gets buried in their favorite clothes. He should be in that stupid Billabong T-shirt and those ratty plaid shorts. I know his parents would never consider it but it’s more real, you know? Like David was really lying there, the funny David, the one who liked to party. Not the cleaned up parental version. They even slicked down his hair.

Everyone at the funeral home kept saying how lucky I am and how they’re shocked or sorry, patting my back. But that’s only because they don’t know. David’s the lucky one. He doesn’t have to think about it anymore but I do. . . .every day. . . . for the rest of my life. None of them suspect and I can never tell them. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The party was off the hook and David had downed more booze than me and I’d had plenty. He handed me the keys to his Dad’s Lexus and said, “TMH.” And I was like, “TM what?” David laughed and said, “TMH, you know? As in I’m so drunk, Take Me Home.”

So I was driving and we were laughing and there was a raccoon and then a tree. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. By the time I woke up and crawled over to him, he was dead. I was shaking. I was so scared and that’s when I got the idea to tell the cops that he did it, that he was driving. It was my second DUI and David was dead. Dead! So what would it matter to him? Only I never stopped to think it might matter to me. I never stopped to think how it would feel to live with this. And now, I’m not sure I want to anymore. . . .live that is.

patlaff said...

Dear Diary,

This blows! Mrs. Cranston is making the whole class keep a stupid diary for the first quarter and she expects everyone to write down all their feelings and crap like that. So here goes. I’m feeling like this is waste of time. I’ve got homework to do, real homework, and mom & dad are riding my ass about grades. Like a 3.65 isn’t good enough? And then there's the fact that they’re always trying to get me to open up. I don’t have time to write down how I feel. I barely have time to feel what I feel. I mean, if I’m not gonna tell mom & dad I’m sure as hell not gonna write it down so Mrs. Cranston can read it. Please! Give me an essay to write or something. Anyway, that’s what I’m feeling right now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have something good to write.

Shelley said...

May 24, 2004

Today, American Soldiers enter our school. I was so scared. We were all scared even our teacher. I didn't know why they were there. They were dressed in their uniforms and carrying guns. They looked scarier in our little school room than when you've seen them patrolling the streets. My family told me that they are supposed to be the good guys but to always be careful. They lined up around our school room while one, speaking in our language, talked to our teacher. I couldn't hear what they were saying. I was worried they were coming to take us away. I was worried I wouldn't see my family again. Then our teacher smiled and headed out the door with the soldiers. They returned carrying boxes. Our teacher informed us that they brought school supplies that were donated from America. We felt so special. We stood in line for our gifts. I sat down at my desk and excitedly touched each item. I didn't even know what a couple of them were but I was very happy.

A Soldier walked over to me. She kneeled down and asked me how old I was. I told her I was sixteen. She smiled and told me she had a thirteen-year-old daughter back home. I could see tears in her eyes. As she wiped her tears, she said that she missed her very much. She took her helmet off and showed me a picture of her daughter. Her daughter was sitting on a swing with a big smile. She put her helmet back on and reached for a book in my stack of gifts. She tells me it's a place to write my thoughts and when I'm older I can read about what I've been through and how far I've come. I can write about my hopes and dreams. She told me that her daughter has one just like this journal and she is writing about her life too. So this is my first entry. One day I hope to know what it's like to live without fear. To know that my family and I are safe. One day I wish to have that more than anything.

Jeff Hewitt said...

Hey journal.

I know most everything I write is bland bullshit, who likes whom, who broke up, who's fighting, who's screwing, all that stuff. No one wants to read that other than me. I'm not sure why I even journal, but I think it helps me sort out my thoughts, helps me keep in mind why I feel different and why that's okay. Why do I stand outside my friends and their day to day shit? I dunno. Still, there was something different about today.

New kid in school. A chick. She's hot, and not in that way that makes all the hot chicks in my class look the same. And, when I saw her, my hands went all sweaty and clammy. I thought that was bestseller crap, but there it was. My mouth was dry too. I've never seen anyone like her. Her hair is dark, totally upsetting the wannabe Valley crowd. Or so you'd think, but she's fit right in. I want to feel betrayed by how easy she fits, but that doesn't make sense. I guess a new face is welcome in a small school. Who cares, right? But...the way she's mesmerizing. I don't even know if it's her hips, or her smile, or...what.

Fuck, I can't even think straight enough to get it down on paper. She just seems natural, I guess. The type of chick that's cool with everyone. You see them in movies but it's like they're unicorns around here. Everyone fits in one spot, everyone's one damn connection, and somehow she's...universal. An adapter. That's a shitty analogy, but...that's what I get. She fits in wherever.

She's got a couple classes with me, um... AP biology and Economics/Government. Andy's lab partner was sick today so she was with him for more Punnett fucking squares (how I do love alleles!). You'd never guess how boring they are from the way she tossed her hair and smiled. Jake, my partner, got pissed because I wasn't paying attention, but that's not new. He's always pissed. He just goes on and on about his dad. Lay off, man! No one wants to hear it anymore! Everyone hates their dad, it's highschool. My last class of the day is Coach Governs was out today and we had a sub, who just told us to do the work sheets. She sat there and read. The new chick sat next to me, and I could smell her vanilla perfume. She wore just enough, everyone around here just hoses themselves down with shit but hers...just a hint. It made my nose tingle, and my stomach tight. She asked me for some help on one part. I stammered the whole time. She probably think I'm a tool. Thing is, she smiled at me. I couldn't tell you the last time anyone, especially a chick, smiled at me, at my school. When the bell rang, I even had the guts to find out her name.

It's Rose.

January 6, 2010.

Eugenia Tibbs said...

July 17,

Mom finally said something to me about the power being shut off. She tried really hard to laugh it off, said if anybody asked to tell them we joined the Sierra Club. I didn’t let her know that I found the bill a couple of days ago.
She won’t let me get a summer job, says she wants me to stay home and be a kid. Taking care of the garden is job enough.
I’m fifteen already! It’s time for me to start helping out and be a man. Mom already works two lousy paying jobs, if she would let me mow lawns or something it could at least go towards keeping the stupid lights on.
Better than robbing banks.
A bank.
Like the one just down the street.
Sara’s trying to talk me out of it, but that’s just because her dad’s a cop.
It’s not like it would be all that hard to start, the hole’s already in the basement wall. Sara brought over her flashlight last night so we were able to check it out. Can’t tell yet how far back it goes but we’ll crawl into it tomorrow, if Sara won’t freak out. The creep factor is way high down there. Every day it’s been over 90 degrees outside but in the basement last night I swear we could see our breath.
Sara says if there’s a body down there she’s telling. I don’t think it would smell so much like flowers if something was dead down there.
Would it?

Melissa Sarno said...

I wish Callie understood. This is the only place for me. The sun is hot and the days are long and there are so many beautiful people walking arm in arm under a blue sky. It’s not like home, what Mama calls it, all quiet and dark, those ugly flowered drapes. Dad’s not here, to vanish once again. Callie says nobody sees us, but at least we’re really here.

She doesn’t know how cold it is there. How we stay indoors, waiting for people who never come. Nobody wants to show up for school but I bring my paper-bag lunch and eat alone.

Callie thinks everyone on the island is a fake. She doesn’t understand how it is that Jenny’s make-up doesn’t smudge when she’s swimming. She thinks Oscar wants to get in and get out of one of us and that’ll be it. That’ll be the end. Of what? She doesn’t know that it would be the beginning. Of something. Anything. She doesn’t see what I see here.

She doesn’t understand that when the summer is over, there’s nothing else out there for me.

Sarah said...

The traitor lies at the foot of my bed, licking her left paw.

Jake is gone. Finally. The longest evening ever.

As soon as Jake arrived, I needed to move. To do something different. To avoid the usual routine:
1. Token acknowledgment of traitor at the door
2. Make nice to parents
3. Retreat to basement
4. Turn on TV
5. Make out

Not Saturday night so we couldn't go out - that would be breaking routine. Jake doesn't do board games and he's watching his weight for wrestling.

"Let's walk Lady," I said. Then added, "I promised my mom." I can't seem to stop lying now that I know how.

At first the traitor acted like she didn't believe me. She knows our routine.

Jake said, "Maybe she doesn't want to go."

But then she jumped up. Dragged us down the road. I was ready to move fast with her. The wind was a relief.

I didn't realize where she was leading us. Not at first.

But then I saw the field. Behind the gas station. Where C works. The field where C takes his breaks. Lady was there one time. Only once. But she remembered.

The closer we got, the harder she pulled. Then bent down in her throw-me-another-ball pose. Her whimpers turned into absolute total yelps... Because C was there.

Lady wanted him.
Wanted to leap over him with wags and kisses and sniffs.

I knew how she felt. When I saw C's hideous orange stained uniform jacket and lop-sided beanie cap, my heart
was a traitor too.

C grinned.

I wanted to act like Lady.

But when Jake said, "What the hell is wrong with your dog?", routine kicked in and the lies poured out.

"I don't know. I think she saw a squirrel. We should go back."

My mouth only tells lies anymore.

C gave me such a look.

And now, here on my bed, with Jake finally gone
Lady looks at me like I'm the traitor.

ShannonB said...

Dear Diary,

My life is crazy! I seriously feel like I don’t have any friends. Everyone seems to think I’m the lamest girl in school and all just because some new girl doesn’t like me. Why they think she is so cool is beyond me. This morning, by the time I got on the bus, Joanie had already turned my life upside down. Everywhere I tried to sit, no one would let me! Even my so-called friend Ruth wouldn’t scoot over. She just nodded her head towards Joanie and shrugged her shoulders as if Joanie had control over her. Then the bus driver started yelling at me to sit down as if I was the one doing something wrong. What a joke! I panicked and threw my backpack over some kid and climbed over him to sit down. I was lucky he didn’t shove me into the aisle.

On top of being tortured on the bus, lunch sucked. I had to sit by myself, which I’m sure didn’t help matters. Loner! Vanessa, Jessica, and Tricia were off campus with the band. There I was, left to pick at my sandwich, mortified with my lack of company. I was sitting on the outdoor stage with my back to the retractable door. Like clockwork Joanie came sauntering up the steps to the stage with her little entourage behind her. She stopped in front of me just waiting for my reaction. When I finally looked up, she kicked my lunch over the edge of the stage. I wish I could have smacked that stupid little grin off her face, but if I tried I probably would have followed my lunch right off the stage. So I just sat there. On top of everything some idiot ran by and trampled what might have been salvageable from my lunch. Maybe a little starvation will do my overly thick thighs some good. Mom says it’s just baby fat and I’ll outgrow it. Wonder when that’ll be?

Somehow I managed to make it through the rest of school without consequence. When the last bell rang, I ran to the bus as fast as I could so that I would have a seat for sure. I managed that feat! But as everyone got on the bus, they glared at me and snickered like they knew something I didn’t. Sure enough, when Joanie walked by she said “I’m gonna kick your ass when we get off the bus!” My heart was racing! I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t let her know that! I quickly went through the possibilities: run like a baby, get my ass kicked. Ugh! I couldn’t believe what was going on. Why me? I decided to get off the bus and walk very casually home. Somehow I made it inside before Joanie got anywhere near me. My heart was pounding in my chest as I leaned against the closed door. All I could think about was what I was going to do tomorrow?

Tricia J. O'Brien said...


Dear Di,

I seriously malfunctioned today.

L. called me Robot Girl again and I stuck my fork in his arm. There was still a pea impaled on the tines.

Before they could grab me, I ran to my hidey-hole. But I can't stay forever. No food. No way out. I'll have to go back and take my punishment. This time I won't piss myself. I promise.

Just because there's a metal plate in my head doesn't mean I'm a droid or anything. I know I repeat myself a lot since the accident, but I was doing it before, too. Seems like the first time I got in trouble was for writing Mr. Forrest's name over and over in my lined notebook. I couldn't help myself. I loved the way he stood in front of class, half leaning on his desk, his eyes hooded when he called our names. His name was like chanting. It pushed out everything else shouting in my head. James.


I love to write it. Still.

But I'd best go back so they never find you. I'll write some more later. If they don't break my fingers.

Love, Me

Norma King said...

Dear Diary:
Here goes: My cat’s name is Marshmellow and my parents named me Jonni after my grandfather—Jonni Bree Morrill. Pronounced John-nee Bree Moore-ul. Got it?
I used to like my name, but that was before that nerd in biology asked me if my last name was On-The-Spot. I laughed, but I really hated it. The worst part was I was sure that Erik heard.
His birthday is March 13. I peeked at his chart in the nurses’ office when I was supposed to be filing. The nurse doesn’t even know what I do she’s too busy checking out her Facebook page.
Erik is the closest thing Pinedale has to a rock star. His dad is the new cop in town and all the girls are talking about “getting arrested.” But I DON’T CHASE GUYS—EVER. Let the ravenous wolves divvy him up, I’d just concentrate on school cause that was the only thing that was going to get me out of this retarded town.
But then by some secret design of the Gods, Erik was assigned to be my lab partner in biology.
So back to the nerd. Today, we had our first biology lab. Erik-of-the-Gods asked if the nerd was my boyfriend or something and my face got red hot. I was afraid he was going to say something about jonni-on-the-spot but he didn’t.
Then Mr. Ford pulled some frozen mice out of his freezer and told us we had to skin and stuff um. Was he kidding? I thought I was going to throw up in front of Erik-of-the-Gods but fortunately, like any good superhero would, he came to the rescue and did all the skinning and stuffing.
And this was the best part. He touched my hand as he took the scalpel out of it. It made me tingle so I kept picking up stuff to hand him like alcohol wipes and cotton balls, whatever. I’m sure I could have floated out the door on tingling alone, but then the bell rang.
And here comes the best, best part: Erik-of-the-Gods turned to me and said he had to get to football practice and could I, would I, clean up the lab and that he’d owe me one if I did. And, oh, would I fill out the report, too?
All I could do was squeak yes and nod my head.
He signed his name on the report then handed me the pen…I knew what to do…and our hands touched and it was the Red Sea again all over my face.
And for the really best part: He smiled and said, “Thanks, see you around, Jonni—hey, cool name.”
Just like that. I LOVE biology.

Morgan said...


Pink used to be my favorite color. It reminded me of the short strips of bubble gum dad used to bring home from the store, back when he used to come home at all. It was the color of my favorite sweater, the thick one, cable-knit, that clung to my thin body and made it look like I had curves. Pink is the color of cheeks brightened by cold and summer toe nail polish. Pink is cheerful and vibrant and fun. Pink was perfect for me. Perfect for the me before this new me. This new, terrified, little me.

The walls of my bedroom are still pink. I’ll have to change that. I’d rather cover them in trash bags than look at that color. My notebooks for school are pink. I won’t have to buy new ones. I’ll probably end up having to drop out now. Great. Not like I liked school anyway. And remember that ring Mom bought me for my birthday? That big sixteenth birthday? Yeah, well, I’ll never wear it again. It’s pink.

Pink used to be my favorite color.

Until it showed up on the pregnancy test in the second floor girl’s bathroom. I remember there was a condom wrapper on the floor. A green one. “Extra ribbed” was written on the side. I kicked it around as I waited for that stupid plastic stick to change color, to tell me my fate. I prayed for blue. That was the “all clear.” But I didn’t get blue. I got pink. A pink smiley face. My face did not smile.

I didn’t frown either though. Didn’t cry. I just rummaged in my purse for a cigarette and walked towards the bathroom window to smoke. Guess I shouldn’t smoke anymore. Guess that was my last one.

My life is over if I keep it. Mom will kick me out, I'll be too busy with the kid to go to school anymore, I won't be able to see my friends. But I don’t want to kill it. And, Jesus, even I could be a better parent than some of the shit out there. I’ve seen it firsthand. So I won’t let somebody else take it. I don’t know. There aren’t any good options. I just…well…

Shit. I don’t even know. I guess I just wish I’d never met the guy.

I’m going to bed. More tomorrow. If I’m still here.


Michael said...

I just pissed on a stick. Not just any stick, though, but a fancy pink early pregnancy stick. The "gonna get fat stick," if you will. It's sitting on the counter now analyzing my hormones.

The box said to wait two minutes before checking the result but I watched this movie with my mom one time where this woman threw the test in the garbage thinking she was not pregnant and then the second positive line appeared. Not that I believe the garbage they show on Lifetime during my mom's required movie nights.

Jason still isn't responding to my texts but I know he loves me. Sex after Adrian's party proves that. He has always loved me.

Urrrgggghhhh - I hate this waiting!! It's only five minutes but it's like the five minutes during passing period when none of your friends are in the hallway. You look like such a loser and everyone's looking at you wondering why you are standing there by yourself. I'm watching the second hand on my frog clock. I keep thinking it's broken because the damn thing just suspends there before finally moving. A second is a long time.

My phone just buzzed but it wasn't Jason. Whatever. I hate this on and off thing he insists on doing. After three years you'd think he'd just surrender to our love. My mom told me once that boys are stubborn and I guess she's right. For once.

Oooohhhh Froggy's alarm just went off!! I sure hope it's positive so I can shove the pee stick in that SLUT Ashley's face. Ok, diary, I'll be back.

Mira said...

Thanks for the contest, Nathan.

I can’t believe I’m such a wuss. I can’t even kill an earwig.

But it’s a SCARY earwig. It’s HUGE! If I get close, it might run up my leg (!!!) Oh my god! Oh my freakin god!!

Oh my god, I’m such a wuss.

But I don’t want to KILL it. Poor little earwig. Maybe it has an earwig family, and they’ll be sad because their dad never came home. Or mom. See? I even write dad in my diary. Must remember to fight against THEIR conditioning. Must fight. Fight, fight, fight!

Well, I’m fighting with an earwig right now. A teensy tiny earwig. I’m such a wimp. It’s in the bathroom. I stuck a towel under the door so it can’t get out. Joe told me earwigs crawl into your ear when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that something a stupid brother would say? But what if it’s true? What if it’s true?! Do you think that’s true? Who am I asking if that’s true? I guess I’m asking me. Do I think it’s true? Well, I asked you first, do YOU think it’s true? Ha ha. Okay, quit messing around. It’s 2 a.m., there’s an earwig in the bathroom. This is serious.

Okay. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go kill that earwig.

Wish me luck.

Okay. I didn’t kill it. It’s still there. I’m scared. My shoe isn’t long enough. What if it jumps on me? I need something longer, like a broom. But a broom might just hurt it. I don’t want it to suffer. Poor little earwig. Just going along in its little earwig life, looking for an ear to crawl into, and here I come along and MURDER it. Is that fair? Should I have such power, such responsibility over life and death? Is it right that I can kill the earwig, but the earwig can’t kill me? What odd, strange and twisted fate has inextricably intertwined our destinies, this earwig and I?

Okay, that was kind of deep, but I soooo need to go back to bed. I'm going to DO this.


It’s gone! It’s GONE. Maybe it got out, and it’s crawling toward me as we speak. Must go find the earwig. I can’t, I can’t. Maybe it’s hiding and it will jump out at me.

This is ridiculous.
Okay, I found the earwig. It was hiding behind the toilet. It must know that it’s doomed. Poor thing. Okay, I’m going back to kill it. Brb.
I can’t kill it. Forget it. Let Joe kill it. This is all his stupid fault. If anyone should be up killing earwigs at 3 a.m. in the morning, it’s my stupid brother.
Joe won’t do it. I refuse to sully these pages with what he said. Suffice it to say my stupid brother is not going to get up to kill an earwig. Fine.

I'll do it myself.
Okay, never mind. I can't do it. I’ll just put cotton in my ears, so it can’t crawl in, and go back to bed. Hope it crawls into Joe’s ears.

All right, little earwig. Go back to your family, and have a happy life. Be free, little earwig, be free.

God, I hope it's not still there in the morning.

Tchann said...

Dear Journal,

I went over Rich's house tonight. Mom dropped me off and he greeted me with a kiss after she drove away. She doesn't like seeing us kiss, I don't know why. I'm thirteen! That's something girls do.

We went up his room know. Made out. On his bed, for a few hours. His room is so tiny but at least the bed is normal sized. We had City of Angels on the tv anyway, just as cover. It looked good but my attention was all on Rich. He did that thing with our legs that I love and then he asked me to have sex.

I wonder if I did the right thing. I mean, we've been going out for over a year. But sex is a whole different thing and...well, I don't think I'm ready. I don't know what ready is but I think I'll know when I am. And I know they say guys only have it on the mind but Rich is different, but...I guess he's not that different. I slapped him. I don't think I've ever slapped anyone before. It was like some kind of movie, me moving my hand towards his cheek and his glasses fell off and onto the floor. I don't know if I did it because I was upset or because it felt like the right thing to do. That's why I wonder.

We didn't say much after that, just sat in his room until mom came to pick me up. It felt weird and I think mom knew something was up but I didn't want to tell her. If she thinks I'm slutty because I kiss my boyfriend, I don't want her to know about this. I mean, I still love him. I don't want to stop seeing him. I just don't want to do this. Yet.

I'll talk to him tomorrow at school. I'm sure things will be just fine, really.

TCNC said...

Mood: *sigh*
I'm SO over us just "hanging out." I wish I could flip time over like a big pancake and start again. Start with someone new, someone that isn't afraid to hold my hand at school or walk by my locker and actually freaking LOOK at me. You know, acknowledge that I'm alive and stuff. Its horrible keeping us secret, even from Kennedy who I think is starting to catch on. I texted her yesterday that I couldn't come over after school because of our tutoring sessions, she said to me omg how bad can a person be at math???!!! Although I don't even think Kennedy would believe me if I told her about us. Plain, drab monochromatic me with him - star high school quarterback, god's gift to Jameson High School's teen girls (and a few select female teachers). Whatever. How ironic that I could make or break the rest of his life by not helping him pass algebra. No C = no full-ride scholarship.

Right. As if I'd eff that up for him.

Gotta go teach Mr Wonderful the ins and outs of variable and coefficients….BBL

Kathryn said...

Dear Diary,

Today I won 1st prize for my painting. Remember the art contest I told you about? The one that I wasn't going to enter? Well, I did. Melanie really wanted me to and, well, you know Melanie. It was a contest for the whole high school. I can’t believe I won! A Grade 9er has never won before.

Mrs Hutton, our art teacher, told us to pick the painting that “says the most.” Mrs Hutton is always going on about art speaking to us. I don’t think art speaks. I think it listens and keeps secrets. Anyway, I couldn't decide which painting to choose so I let Melanie pick. She picked Inside Out. Melanie thinks my paintings are tormented and disturbed. Melanie says disturbed is cool.
Mrs Hutton thinks Inside Out is "abstract," "dark," and "full of meaning." She even called it "apocalyptic." Melanie thinks it looks more like a rugged coastline. Whatever. People see what they want to see.

The problem is that Mrs Hutton wants me to talk next week in class about inspiration and what I think about when I paint. Nobody knows what the painting is really about. Not even Melanie. They’d all freak out. My mother would send me to some stupid shrink and start watching me all the time.

I guess in a way the painting is apocalyptic. My ultimate doom. Sometimes I think my heart will stop. That I’ll choke and die on the bathroom floor and that will be it. The End. It only feels good afterwards. When everything is still and quiet. Total emptiness. Nothing feels better than right after a purge.

So. Inspiration. What am I supposed to say? That I think about what I threw up when I paint? That my barf inspires me?

Chips, cookies, bananas, leftover ravioli, Frosted Flakes.

What if Melanie knew that her rugged coastline was actually chunks of brownies? I should have known better than to eat them. Brownies are always hard to get out. Too thick and gooey. At least the way Mom makes them. It took forever to throw them all up and my throat really hurt the next day. Next time I have to remember to drink more milk. Or eat vanilla ice cream. Milk coats my stomach and makes throwing up easier. But ice cream would make better clouds.

Erin Nolan said...

To the nameless, faceless, TBD boy or man I'm going to lose it to:

I'm pretty sure your TBD status is going to be resolved soon (virginity has a natural expiration date, right?), but I'd honestly prefer it if you remained nameless and faceless even after you deflowered me - no, wait, make that even while we're doing it. It's not that I think there's going to be anything wrong with you (I know I have good taste), it's just that at this point, I don't see how there's any way I can look at you as anything more than a means to an end.

I want to be in the club, okay? I want my own story to share, whether it's me seducing you in a bedroom full of lavender scented candles when my parents go away for a weekend, or if one night things just get out of hand after a few too many wine coolers at a football party. Okay, maybe I don't really want it to be so cliché, but I do want to hear a couple of reassuring "OMG! Me too!!!!"s when I describe the event to my friends. I even want to bleed, just so I can be sure it really happened.

I want to have that glow that comes with the first-hand knowledge that I'm a real woman now. You can tell which girls at school have done it by the way they move down the hallway. Their hips seem to swing more. The burden of all this growing up crap is behind them. But what makes me mad is that I can't get there on my own. I need to find you first. And I know that what will happen between us will be a lot more complicated than just one body part going into another.

That's the problem with being the last one in my group of friends to go through this. I know what to expect. Maybe I was jealous of each of them at first, but that jealousy faded quickly when Rachel's guy mysteriously stopped talking to her at school. That's wasn't even the worst one, either. Lisa's First drew naked cartoons of her in every men's room in town, including one in the diner where her dad buys his coffee. And Amanda's guy must have been going for some kind of record, because she caught him with his hand up some cheerleader's skirt less than 24 hours after he'd gotten her into bed by saying he loved her. Amanda hadn’t been stupid to trust him, either. They’d been going out two years before they’d done it.

I know that first love has a terrible track record, and that my first most likely won’t be my last. They aren’t joking when they say you’re going to take (whatever’s left of) my innocence. But I still really need to know; how am I supposed to give my body to you when I know I can’t trust you with my heart?

Liz said...


I’m sure you know by now that Nic’s in love with me and you pretty much hate my guts. I don’t blame you. If the situation were reversed, I’d be poking voodoo dolls in your likeness with needles. Repeatedly. But that’s okay. I’d rather you hate me than him. Nic never intended to hurt you. He held on until he knew for sure that he’d never be able to love you. And he wanted to. Trust me. Sometimes when things get too hard for him, I’m certain he still wishes he could, that it would be your hand in his instead of mine, that everything would go away and he could just be “normal.”

To be honest, I don’t know why he chose me. I’m just as baffled as you are. I mean, I am a guy, so I guess I have that advantage. Maybe it was because I’ve been there for him as he figured out his sexuality; maybe it’s just that he wanted someone he felt comfortable with the first time he was with a boy. I don’t know. I try not to dwell on it and enjoy it, rather than worrying about when he’ll realize he could do a lot better.

I know it must look like I’ve stolen him and that you can’t trust me, but I want you to know that in an odd way, I understand what you’re going through. I watched him for years thinking that he’d never be mine. I know what it’s like to sit next to him in class and long to touch him, to be the one he kisses in the hallway, the one that makes his gorgeous eyes light up. I’ve known how awful it is to know you’re not the one he’s dreaming about. I’ve known the pain of hearing him say “I love you” to someone else.

So…I understand why you hate me. But I’m writing this letter because I want you to know that I also understand how amazing he is. I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to take him for granted. And I will do everything I can to make sure he knows how amazing he is, too.

Lark, you are so important to him. He hated keeping this from you. He wanted to talk to you about this all along because he knows he can trust you and because you keep him calm like no one else can. As soon as you feel you can, he’ll need you back in his life. I can tell you from experience, coming out will be the hardest thing Nic has ever done. Even the strongest of us can’t avoid the pain and heartbreak that comes with it. Some of his closest friends will turn away. Maybe even his family. He needs you, and selfish as it sounds, I need you too. I can’t do this alone.


T.L. Kenworth said...

Dear Diary,
I’m leaving. Today, I return to Tennessee and all that I hold dear--and hope is still there for me. Leaving in the first place was a big mistake. Some people might think I’m trying to hide, as my way to deal with the scars, with the horror of what’s happened but the truth is, I belong there, I always have. Meeting Silver was the best thing that ever happened to me, though I could have foregone the Hollows, the death of my mother at the fiends’ hands, and a game of terror played out by a madwoman. I can almost see him as I write this, free, noble, a hero among heroes. If it hadn’t been for him--
No, I won’t think of that, of how close to death I really came last summer. Most people whisper about what I look like now, how much I’ve changed. The cuts and bruises have healed but I lost something in myself. Maybe for the best. I was so into beauty and how it defined me, I forgot that there were people out there that needed a hand reached out to them in comfort. My mother was one of these, I think. She’d gotten so far off track in her life, to the point that she left her family behind for another man. Talk about awkward at the time. I still don’t understand her choice but I’d rather live with it than have her dead.
Reed and Adrianna got married. The ceremony was beautiful and I cried to see them so happy, so alive. I remember the day when they almost missed this chance to be together, when the Hollows nearly wiped out a future for them. I wondered as I watched them under the trellis, if we were meant to be. Fear and terror brought me into your life and you rescued me from that but in the light of day, is there a place for a prince? It is this thought that keeps a lump in my throat. Wondering, wishing. Do you do the same?
I remember the depth to your eyes, like looking into a canyon, knowing that I would soar in your presence but not sure how to avoid the sharp edges. How can life be so full of wonder but underneath be a razor awaiting a killer’s hand? Do you forgive me? For her. She was your best friend, your mentor. I know how much she meant to you, though not in the way she wanted. There is that that I hold onto. Looking back, I don’t think anything could have changed her path.
I shudder when I think of the way she held that blade, the way it kept dipping down, biting into my flesh. For too long, I’ve dreamed of that night. I know I need to leave it behind me, to go on and with you beside me, I ‘m sure I can. So be there, please, I need you.

Natalie Campisi said...

I'm so pathetic that I can't stop Googling "Ketchikan" just so maybe I can find a picture of me with some stupid tourist I sold a stupid fake bear paw keychain to at the shitty job I have in poor, miserable Alaska.

They take so many goddamn pictures I'm bound to be in one. It's like they just discovered a new species the way they take one picture after another. And then they all ask the same questions. Sometimes I really can't believe they all ask the same questions. Is the water safe to drink? Well, let's see miss, it comes from a freaking GLACIER, what do you think?

A few times I told the people that it wasn't safe at all and then sold them bottled water at $3 a pop. At first I felt bad, but then I figured if they're rich enough to afford to cruise all the way to this shitty town from wherever the heck they come from then they probably can afford bottled water. I told my mom I did that and she thought it was funny. She told her friend, Ginger, a waitress she works with who's missing at least three teeth, she was proud of me for being so smart. She gets a real kick when I find pictures of me on the internet with some tourist. So far I've found three.

Three seems like nothing, but considering I've looked at probably a thousand or more photos it's pretty cool when I find myself. The last picture I found was taken two years ago when I was fourteen and just started working at KETCHIKAN KEEPSAKES. I know, I think it's a corny name too. Whatever. The asshole who runs it, Larry Billy is a pretty corny dude - he wears a coonskin cap like some fat Daniel Boone or woodchuck hunter or something. Anyhow, my hair was real long and stringy at the time and I had pretty bad acne. I actually hate the picture. But I remember the lady who took it, she was ugly I guess but had a real friendly face, kind of like a cool teacher.

It was weird, she insisted on taking my picture holding up a hand-painted sign that just said "Ketchikan, Alaska." My mom said I look like my dad in the picture. I never saw no picture of my dad so I tried to imagine me looking like, you know, an adult. It's kind of weird looking at yourself trying to imagine what your own dad looks like, you know? I don't think mom meant it as a compliment or anything. It's cool though. The really weird thing is, apart from the goofy pictures I've taken with some of my buddies and my ex-girlfriend, these three pictures are the only ones I have of myself. I never even had any baby pictures taken. I guess it's kind of weird that a stupid stranger would want a picture of me.

rebekahg22 said...

Sun's Journal:

It’s the end of the world. Literally. And here I am, about to go out into the woods, armed with my bow and a knife. If I’m lucky, I’ll take out another “soul-sucker” or two. I’m sick of being scared, and sick of seeing darkness. I want my life back. If only they wouldn’t have come, I’d be able to have a normal life. But there will be no boyfriends, no dances, no makeup, not for me. But I’m alive, so that’s something, right?

Who am I kidding? This isn’t living, this is surviving. All we have left are our memories and the rubble that used to be a town. Five whole years, we’ve hidden in the cave, trying to stay alive, me, my grandpa, and eight others. I keep holding out hope that we’ll find more survivors, that we’ll be able to take back our world. Mischa says I’m dreaming—that things will never be what they were. But I don’t believe that, I can’t. The only thing keeping me going is hope, my humanity. So I’ll keep going into the woods, hunting them down. Because for every one of them that dies, it means one more chance that I don’t.

Shit, Grandpa’s calling from the main cavern. Time to hunt!

Renee Pinner said...

Marcia got to stay out ‘til 12 again last nite. Man, I hate her. I had to be in by 10. Mom said it wasn't like I was on a date or anything.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! That is all I friggin’ hear any more. Mom thought Marsha’s report card was FANTABULOUS. Mine was okay, but, um…why wasn’t that B+ an A? Yeah. FML!

Even in English, Mrs. Taylor said to me, “Jan, you really ought to talk to Marcia about these essay assignments. She was always so good at them.” Marcia and Ms. Taylor can take a flying leap. Man, I wish I had the nerve to tell Mrs. Taylor what I think of her and her friggin’ essay assignments. I’d write a whole essay on it. Better yet, I wish I could tell good ‘ole Mrs. Taylor the crap Marcia used to talk behind her back. I’d luv to see her face then!

Even, Mark is all about Marcia now. I can’t believe I ever had a crush on his freckled face. I worked so hard for MONTHS. Did you read that? MONTHS! Finally, I got his attention. Day after day in the tightest sweaters I could manage without Mom, tsk, tsking and sending me back to my room. Why doesn’t she every notice Marcia’s slutty get ups?! I even avoided ALL food that just MIGHT get stuck in my braces so I wouldn’t have any embarrassing moments in front of him. What a joke. He came over for the second time last Friday. We watched a movie. I couldn’t get Peter or Cindy to leave us alone, but that was okay. At least he was holding my hand and still pretty much talking to me. Then in comes Marcia. Man I hate, her.


Bill Greer said...

I got assigned to the same English project as Jenny today. We'll be on the same team! Mrs. Nestle had us get into our little groups and talk about which Shakespeare play we'd choose. I scored the seat right next to Jenny, but I could hardly think with her being so close. Her feminine scent almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to lean toward her until our shoulders touched. But it also meant I couldn't look at her without turning my head. Hard to sneak peeks that way.

I still did, though. I could see her large bazoongas out of the corner of my eye, and I couldn't stop trying to get a good look at them. Not that I haven't stared at them a million times before. Bazoongas. Jenny would laugh if she heard me use that word. Would she use a creepy laugh that meant she was too good for me or a sweet laugh that meant she found that funny? Bazoongas. Jake calls them tits, but that seems too nasty or profane for someone as nice as Jenny. My dad always calls them melons, but they're not fruit. Mom says breasts or boobs. I like bazoongas. It adds a little pizzazz without sounding mean.

Jake gets away with his smug tits comments because he's perfected the art of acting like everyone else is beneath him. Which for some god-forsaken reason draws girls by the dozens. I don't get it. He treats them like crap and there's always another one waiting in the wings. I would think less of Jenny if she swooned over some guy like Jake.

Jenny could have her pick of any guy she wants. She never seems to have a boyfriend, though. The guys who tried and got shot down call her the ice queen or stone cold bitch. She's never been anything but nice to me. Maybe next group meeting I'll sit across from her and hope to catch a view of that inviting smile. Sitting next to her, though, tingling with anticipation that we might bump or touch hands is so exciting. That seems lame now that I wrote that. Maybe Jake is right. I'm just a wuss.

A guy can dream, though. Right?

The Things We Carried said...

Dear Diary,

I am not sure I will be writng here much longer. It seems in MY life things only go from bad to worse. How much more am I supposed to be able to take? I can't! I just CAN'T!

I keep thinking about how Mr. Henesy said that suicide is a sin after Mom died; that ugly snear on his disgusting old face as he drew the word "sin" out as if he was talking about something dirty like sex. I HATE him for talking about my mom like that. I HATE HIM! I wish he was dead. I wish I was dead.

Josh won't even LOOK at me at school anymore. He pretends I am invisible. How can he DO that? How can he act like he doesn't see me at all? I don't understand what happened! I keep thinking about the way he used to look at me. What about that night by the lake? He pulled my shirt off, and didn't even look down. He just stared into my eyes and kept whispering that he loved me! He LOVED me! How could he act like I am nothing now? I hate him. I hate him! But I know I will never find another guy like him again. I knew it was too good to be true that a guy like him could actually love a girl like me...

I hate myself! I hate my life! I hate my mom for killing herself and leaving me here alone. I hate Josh for acting like I am dead!Diary, I can't write here much longer because I won't be here. I won't be here by morning.

Karen said...

So, I’ve found the love of my life. Tall, dark, handsome—check. Coke, not Pepsi—check. Laughs at my jokes—double check. And, by God, he likes me too.

But damn it, he’s dead.

Oh, not vampire still walking the earth dead. Or zombie but still kind of cute dead cuz his ears haven’t fallen off yet. Teriq Helou is just plain garden variety dead. Which would be fine if I were some normal person, cuz I would never have met him seeing as how he died two years ago and we just moved here to Desolation Valley a month ago.

But thanks to my super-crappy, wouldn’t-wish-it-on-my-worst-enemy “gift” (thanks again, Mom), I did “meet” him—or the ghost/soul/spirit that was all that was left of him—and damn it, I liked him. Way-too-much a lot.

And in the usual craptastically crappy way of my life, I have to find a way to get rid of him. Solve his problem, break his link to earth, send him to the great beyond. Never see him again.

See all that red spilling on the page? That’s my heart breaking open and emptying out.

What if I didn’t do my duty? What if I pretended I was just Psychic Girl who happened to see dead people? Tariq wouldn’t have to know it was my job to send him home to the angels. I could just keep him as my boyfriend. Okay, so kissing would be weird and I’m surely never having his baby. But doesn’t a poor motherless child like me deserve a little love in my life?

Blech. Who am I fooling? Even if I never told him the truth (no chance of that since I’m, like, suckingly honest), there’s that pain-so-bad-feels-like-guts-ripped-out thing that happens when I don’t follow through (thanks again, Mom, you couldn’t have told me?). And I’m a wimp when it comes to pain.

So, yeah, tomorrow, I’ll be digging around the Internet. Find out how/why/where Tariq died. Clear up all the misunderstandings, tie up the loose ends of his life. Say goodbye.

Then cry for at least a week.

I love you, Tariq.

marce merrell said...

Dear Diary,

I am not who you think I am. You can erase all those assumptions about my intelligence, my fashion sense and, especially, about my taste in guys.

I'm not suicidal. I'm not.

I'm a realist.

It was too easy to open the back door of his car and even easier to take off my heels so they wouldn't punch a hole in his upholstery.

He didn't ask me if he could call me later. Hell, he didn't even look me in the eyes.

I don't blame you for punishing me with your silence. I should have known better.

I need to clean out my closet.

Robert Michael said...

Dear Diary,

I got a new obsession today. Surprisingly, it doesn't have anything to do with my hair.
I found out that Farrah has a brother. I sorta met him today while I was visiting Farrah. He just sits in his room, brooding, it seems. When I passed by his bedroom while walking down the hall to Farrah's I noticed him. He was reading some graphic novel, his bangs hanging down over his eyes. He looked up at me as I stared. I was so embarrassed. I just stared at him and said "Hi." He pushed his bangs to the side and I thought I was going to stand there with my hand raised forever like I was taking an oath or something.
His eyes were chocolate. It's silly, but I get hungry just thinking about them. He barely noticed me though. My new obsession? Spend as much time with Farrah as possible without her catching on that I am using her to get to her brother. For some reason, I don't even feel guilty. I think she would do the same to me. We don't really like each other. In ten years, I probably won't even think about her. Unless she's my sister-in-law! WOOT!

Leslie McCrary said...

Dear Diary,
Would you do me a favor? Tell them, okay? I need you to be the one to tell them. They’ll come looking for me. They’ll find you. So tell them. Tell them I tried. I really tried. Tell them I listened. Tell them I was strong. Tell them I couldn’t get away. Tell them I waited. Tell them I watched. Tell them I never asked for any of this. Tell them I wished I was normal. Tell them I wondered if they did too. But tell them I’ll be fine. Tell them I’m not worried. Tell them to not be afraid or bitter. Tell them it’s important. Tell them nobody’s perfect. Tell them I never wrote Mr. Douglas that thank you note. Tell them I meant to finish the dishes last night. Tell them there were a lot of things I left undone. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them to remember how much I love daisies and buttered toast. Tell them the smell of Uncle Mike always made me nauseous. Tell them I once dreamt I could fly. But tell them it all doesn’t matter now. Tell them I’m tired. Tell them I love them and I always have. Tell them it’s the truth. Tell them I mean it. They trust you. Just them tell, okay? Tell them one last time for me.

Selestial said...

January 6,
Remember those New Year's resolutions we made at the party less than a week ago?
- Write in journal every day
- Turn in homework on time
- Tell Missy Parkington just what I thought of her
- Go on a date with Brian Ventimiglio
- Ask Brian to prom
Well, I think this is the fastest I've been able to confirm the success of failure of all my goals.

1 - This is my first entry since I wrote the damn resolutions New Year's Day. Why? Because I suck. I never really wanted to keep a journal. Everyone else just said how great they were, and I thought it was worth a try.
Result = FAILURE

2 - First day back to school was Monday. Had a book report due in English that I wrote the first day of break. It was done. And it was sleeping in all nice and cozy deep inside my laptop. Next year's resolution is to procrastinate on homework. Do it at the last minute and stuff it in my backpack. That should work out better.
Result = FAILURE

3 - Missy got in my face after practice today, so I gave her a verbal beat-down to end all beat-downs. The words "slutty bitch" were involved. She cried. Other team members cheered. She had it coming. I felt better about myself than I had in a long time.
Result = SUCCESS!!!!!!

4 - Feeling better lasted all of about thirty seconds before Brian stormed out of the gym and yelled at me. This time the words "heartless bitch" were involved. So were "I wish I never had to see you again." He walked out of the building holding hands with Missy and telling her everything would be all right.
Result = I suppose it might still happen, but I think I slit my own throat here. FAILURE

5 - See #4.

So, after this lovely week, I've come to a couple conclusions. First, Brian and I just weren't meant to be (which sucks). Second, journals are stupid. We're done.

That One American Girl said...

Today was a good day.

I know. I know. Insert lame Invasion of the Body-Snatchers cliché joke here. But it’s true.

I went to see them. I thought… I don’t know… Maybe they’d give me more reason to hate them. Honestly, I wanted them to. I wanted to watch those bastards, and see they didn’t care, and rip them a gaping new one, and it would have been perfect. They would have deserved it. I REALLY wanted it.

But they were really nice and so grateful and… I don’t know… I guess it lessened the hurt a little. I think.

SO then I started thinking about what we did. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but it really was awesome and epic. It cost me more than I was willing to pay, but seeing them… I don’t know… I think I get it now.

It wasn’t about us. I mean, yeah, it started that way, and I kinda felt like, in the end, it was, because we paid and they didn’t and why should that be when we did it for them and karma should have thought of that and even if it didn’t it wasn’t right because in the end we did it for right reasons and that’s what counts or at least it SHOULD and this is one hell of a run-on sentence so I’ll stop.

But it was bigger than us. It was about saving people who couldn’t save themselves. And now that I’ve seen how they live, I feel better. I did that. WE did that. And a lot of people will be better off because of us.

So… not a great day. I still miss You-Know-Who. I still want to visit the graveyard and make-believe things ended differently. Which I know is a strange place to do that. Shut up.

But what we did was appreciated. They acknowledge the sacrifice. And it was worth it.

Yeah. I’ll call it a good day.

Mackenzie said...

Saturday, March 22nd 1942
Dear Rick,
Please come home. Everyone is worried about you, mama won’t knit anymore and papa just sits around all day. Why is this war tearing our family apart? Rudy thinks that his elder step-brother is brave for enlisting in the war. We didn’t tell him that you are fighting for Americans. Why are you fighting for them and not us? Papa says that the Germans are going to win against the Americans and that you’ll be killed in a battle one of these days.
Papa is going around calling you ‘his idiot stepson who doesn’t know who the real winners are’ now. He says that you have shamed us and refuses to let Rudy or me out of the house. Herr Mulheim comes around sometimes to help us escape the terrible tension in the house; he says it’s not right for a 16-year old girl and a 9-year old boy to have to live with this. Last time you wrote he had still been in battle. He was terribly wounded and had to be sent home. They say half of his face looks like a skull now. I cannot say because he always wears a mask over it. It’s odd, but at least he was allowed to come home.
I will never send this letter so I know that what I will write next will only stay between this paper and I. The truth is I love you far more than I should Rick. People wouldn’t understand, I don’t think. You are my step brother but people take that the wrong way. They don’t understand that you’re not of papa’s blood. That your mother is my step mother and we never knew your father.
You are only 3 years older than I, but remember how you used to tease me to death about it? Or that you were giving a good hiding from Frau Huberman because you wrote about me in an assignment about who our heroes were? Everyone else wrote that Herr Hitler was their hero. I expected you to write about your American president. But why did you write about me? I’ll never understand. I think that’s the day I began to fall in love with you.
I’ll never understand why your mama brought you here from America-life was so much better there for you. Papa never would explain it to me. I can’t help but be glad for it. Thank you for all those English lessons you gave me in our basement. That way, even if papa or Rudy do find this letter then they can’t read it.
I pray for you every day, even though in your last letter to me you said that there was not God out there in the trenches. Because in my heart I still believe in miracles and God is the greatest magician of all.
Your loving sister,

christopher said...

I must have this doughnut. It calls to me with its chocolatey siren voice. The sprinkles are particularly seductive, and I cannot think of that hole without shuddering. I must have it. I will pillage it. I will storm its ramparts like Atilla the Hun. I will possess it, because it has possessed me.

I wonder where the rest of Mrs. Pinckney’s ninth grade class are now? They are fools, fools, I tell you! Ever since I began attending Heinrich Himmler High last fall, I suspected something was wrong. I knew it! Yet, every one of them insisted on taking that accursed ballroom dancing class. Foxtrots, sambas, the Argentinian tango. Bah! Slinking across the dance floor in sequined tights will not save them now. I can still see the instructor Rodrigo, with his waxed moustache, smirking with that smirk of his. I cannot stand his snapping fingers, his tapping toe and his off-hand comments about Paris.

But none of this matters any longer.

Tonight, it must be tonight. I think I have finally figured out how to escape. The guards have grown lax. The German Shepherds seem accustomed to my scent. Besides, they have become diverted with the opossums. I knew the opossums would come through! If I can escape by seven pm sharp, then I will be on time for dinner. Weng-Li, our Swedish cook, always prepares meatloaf on Thursday nights. I have not missed a Thursday dinner in twelve years. He says it is an ancient Swedish recipe, originally prepared on the naked bellies of octogenarian goatherders. It is delicious.

I must concentrate. First, I will deal with this doughnut. Then, the locked door.

The Vampire Years said...

Just learned of this on the final afternoon and I'm on the clock, so an entry is unlikely. But a cool idea just came floating by, snagged it out of the air and now it's mine. Thank you for that. :-)

Dan H. said...

March 6, 2009

It’s official, there are no gay boys in my gym class; though they are all as stupid as I already knew. I hope this gets me out of gym forever. Now that the embarrassment has mostly passed here’s what happened.

I hid in the back row as usual when we lined up for volleyball. I couldn’t use cramps for an excuse ‘cause I used that all last week. If I had Mr. Greene instead of Mrs. Portman it might work; Monique says he’s too embarrassed to question it. So I would have to play until I could fake an injury.

For some reason Mrs. Portman thought we’d all play harder or have more fun if we had a tournament with everyone watching each other; playing to nine. Lose hard; lose fast – my new strategy. There are always enough girls looking to dog so I got on the best (worst) team.

With everyone in the bleachers laughing at us, we took the court and my reputation was changed forever. Thank God no one had a camera phone. I hope. Little boys’ imaginations are bad enough and every one of them in the school is churning hard, I guarantee.

The bleachers were on the other side of the nets from us, full, with a mostly boy team in front of them. Mrs. Portman decided my all-girl team should switch sides with them. (I guess so the boys in the stands would stare at our butts instead of our bouncing, well, ). No problem. It would be nine serves and out.

Note to all girls: when ducking under a volleyball net stay away from the side poles. Or at least, don’t run. I never run. Why did I run?!

So, I duck under the rope that holds the net to the pole and somehow the back of my shirt-neck snags a metal hook. I’m not going super fast, but too fast for a maroon poly-cotton blend with a little fraying. As soon as I feel the tug I kinda twisted to see what happened but lost my balance (I know, shocker!) and fell face-first to the floor. My shirt didn’t go with me in tact. It tears down my neck, takes a hard right under my armpit, shoots diagonally across my left breast to my right hip, and waves like a . . . waving thing.

At first there’s just a gasp from the girls but that’s immediately lost in the roar of laughter and cheers from the boys. 27 boys, none gay. I made a quick exit, clutching the remnants of shirt around me, but not without showing why Mom really needs to buy me that sports bra.

If this does get me out of gym I may have to do a repeat performance in Algebra. Mr. Munger won’t mind.

JustineDell said...

Damn the Gods and all the wrath they toss upon me!

Okay, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic and if my mother ever read this, I would be grounded for an eternity and possibly sent to a nunnery. But, you know, that’s how I feel. From the pit of my soul to the tips of my toes I feel that someone is out to get me. Namely, the pop-tart Stacy Lancaster and her swooning ways towards my brother. Doesn’t she see that he doesn’t like her and her too shiny hair, globbed on lipstick, and fake smile? And her shrilly laugh makes me want to rip off my ears! She just needs to crawl back in her black hole and take her underlings with her. Those girls, that group of hideous and self-righteous girls think they know everything. They have done nothing more but ruin my already pathetic life and make me want to scratch their eyeballs out with my bitten off fingernails.

Damn, damn, triple damn mediocre high school life. Well, at least my mother would be proud that I haven’t yet used the Lord’s name in vein. 50 Hail Mary’s may not be enough in mom’s mind if she knew what I wanted to do to those girls. I should be ashamed of it myself, I know. But look at what they did to my best friend! My only friend. And now that puppeteer Stacy is trying to get her claws into my own brother? Over my dead body.

And then there’s Chad. It’s too bad that he has gotten all wrapped up in the cronies’ state of mind. What was I thinking when I let him take me out? Oh, yes – I remember…I was thinking about the way he used to protect me. The way he used to smile in my direction and laugh at my not-so-funny jokes in math class. The way it seemed that he could make all my troubles go away and sleep at night without a hint of fear. For the life of me I will never figure out what has gotten into him. Why he turned his back on me and chose to run with Stacy’s minions. There’s part of me that doesn’t care and thinks its better that way. The other part, the darker one with a hole ripped through the core, wants him to remember the laughs, the joys, and the tears that we shared just last spring. Too bad in the blink of an eye he evolved into heartless coward, who shuns my very glare.

Shame them all with a million curses that I’m not allowed to say. One day I will break free from this shell and show them all that I am not who I seem. Hear me now, those who wish to cause me harm, that I am a force to be reckoned with. One day you shall all see…

JC Webprints said...

3/19/1994 – like it matters.

What can I write about today that I haven't already written a hundred times? My life still sucks; just like yesterday, and most likely, tomorrow.

I walked to the bus stop with Jacob, just like always. He called me fat, literally poked at me, and made me look stupid in front of Abbey... again. I don't know why I hang out with him, still. I guess friends is better than no-friends, even if they do keep me around just to make fun of.

I got to hang out with Abbey at lunch today. She is always so nice to me, and she is so cute! I just wish she would give me a chance. She says that I'm too nice to date, and that we're "just friends." Why is it that nice guys end up as friends, and the bastards get the girls? I don't get it. It's not in my nature to "play the game." I just want to be authentically nice to a girl, and have her fall in love with me for it.

Maybe not being fat would help, too. I know being ugly sure doesn’t.

I just feel like there is this wall between me and the world, and I don’t know why. I just want to be nice, have friends, and be loved. Why is that so wrong? Why should I be forced to cut myself to FEEL, when the jerks out there get all of the attention.

You know, it’s not even physical with Abbey. I mean, she is very cute, and I love staring at her… but I just want to be WITH her. I would love to just hold hands and talk… or just cuddle on the couch and watch a movie… Doesn’t that mean something?

I dunno. Like I said. Today sucked. Tomorrow doesn’t look much better.

RJC said...

November 14

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I seriously can’t take this anymore. I’m sitting here in his class right now, watching him, listening to him talk about Napoleon, and I’m seriously going insane.

This game ends today. I have to tell him.

I don’t care what anyone thinks. Julia suspects, I know. She’s always waiting for me after class, pretending to want to walk with me. She’s really just watching, trying to sniff something out with her insect feelers. Ugh. Can’t stand her.

Well anyway, I don’t even care, I’m still going to tell him. Today. Afterschool.

We just can’t go on like this anymore. I know he knows. He knows something’s going on. I can tell by the way his eyes linger on me longer than anyone else, the way he can’t help but smile at me when I come into class. And today, when I turned in my quiz, I got right next to him and leaned over all low to set the paper on his desk, so he could smell my perfume and see down my shirt, and I swear his breath was totally trembling.

He wants me. I know it. He knows it. And I’m going to make him say it to me.

Damn, just writing the words makes my hand shake.

He’ll probably be freaked out that he’ll lose his job or something. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can be careful. We’ll never do anything at school. We’ll just meet in town in the middle of the night or something.

Okay, I seriously can’t even breathe right now. Do I really have the guts to do this? . . . Yes. It’s worth it. Anyway, I don’t have a choice. I either tell him now, or go crazy and kill myself or something.

I’m going to do it. I have to.

Wish me luck.

Liesl said...

I know it’s a sin to wish someone dead, but fifty times a day I imagine large, heavy objects falling from the sky and landing on Daryl “the Dip.” Is it possible that Mom could have married a bigger loser? This morning Daryl the Dip “flexed” his hairy white arms and said, “Constance, may you be so lucky to get something so good as this.” He spread his lips to show the fat gap in his teeth. Vomit in my breakfast.

After dinner he told me to help my Mother and wash the dishes. I told him how she likes doing it, that it relaxes her and I had homework.

He told me God made daughters so they could help their mother. I told him that’s what husbands were for and wasn’t it nice of God to send him to her? Shouting. Slamming things. Mom cried. Whatever. The man chaps my hide like the Gobi Desert.

I’ve been praying that he discovers cancer and he’s gone in a week, or at least that he trips over his golf clubs and breaks his hairy white arms and they have to be amputated. But these prayers are sacrilege and I’m really not a violent person. Is it a righteous prayer to ask God to take Daryl up like he did Moses or whoever? Probably not. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for God.

And double-curse on the Dip. Now I can’t even look at a hot boy and want him, can’t flirt, can’t get a tingly feeling in my stomach looking at those tan, muscled arms, because I know that in twenty years they will just be flabby, hairy, and white. Vomit everywhere.

ariana said...


Shonna said...

Dear New Diary,

My stepbrother is selling my old diaries on eBay! I’m gonna kill him…if I don’t die of embarrassment first. He’s such a jerk and “our parents” are taking his side. He says he has NO IDEA what I am talking about. He says, “How can I have an eBay account anyway? I’m underage.”

Yeah, right. He’s got an account AND he has my diaries. Everyone at school knows.

Worse. He’s bidding against me. We’re up to $47 with 3 days left.

He’s going to take back all the money I stole from his iTouch savings. Clever. He’s clever in his jerkiness. He better give my diaries back when I win the auction. Otherwise…oooh, I know what I’ll do. Bring it on step-bro!

just Joan said...

I'll be brave and enter one of the poems from my high school journal (poetry was the only journaling I did). I'll post it here exactly as I wrote it (punctuation was not my friend).
This was after a fight with a boyfriend (duh).

Today, the hurting words you threw
Struck deep, and so I hurt you too.
Our fighting wasn't over yet,
But the first brick had just been set.

Our anger filled the little room
And formed into a cloud of doom.
The cloud was there for many days.
We could not feel our love's soft rays.

Our anger we will not erase.
The bricks keep falling into place.
Each time we fight, more bricks are laid,
'Til we can't break the wall we've made.

goldilocks said...

Here we are again. Just you and me. There’s been a lot of that lately. I, in my room alone. You, listening to me ramble and weep. Only you can hear my silent tears and for that I am sorry. You’re more than a captive audience. It’s comforting, you know, you here with me. I know that we don’t have a lot of time left together. On most days, I’m happy about that; sure that I’m making the right decision for the both of us. In days gone by, I’ve felt secure, confident even. The bravado is waning. The self-assured façade is cracking.

Today, sitting on my bed, surrounded by pictures of family and friends, I’m feeling sad. Sad that I won’t be able to show you the parts of my life that are important, the pieces that put me together, the people who love me. Today, I’m feeling a little disconnected. There’s “them” and there’s “us” and there’s just “me”. The clock is ticking and I know that I’ll be left by myself soon enough. No one else deserves to be here with me, I’ve done this to myself.

I look outside my window and see my brother and sister in the backyard. They are so innocent. They swing and laugh and they look at life through such open eyes. I miss that freedom. I miss that innocence. They have no idea what is really happening with me. They assume that my moodiness and self-imposed isolation comes from the fact that I am fifteen. Then, I hear my mother downstairs, talking to friends on the PTA board. She’s going on about the award I won last month for writing an essay on “leadership”. If she only knew the truth. Who would want to follow me? “Do as I say, not as I do” should have been the title of my essay.

I see my siblings, I hear my mother, but it’s my father that I think of most. I picture the look in his eyes when he sees his little girl growing before him. It’s a mixture of fear and pride and expectation. I thought that I had earned their respect. I’ve worked so hard to be perfect. Disappointment is the worst form of punishment.

I don’t know what’s worse, having others look at you with disappointed eyes or having that feeling come from within. I’m sorry that I wasn’t stronger, that I wasn’t prepared to fight for you. I only know what I can do for myself and for them. It’s selfish, I know, but it is what has to be done. I can’t let my family lose their innocence, not just yet.

I have to write this down, in black and white. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to pretend that you never happened to me. My written words are my proof. If I could have written them in blood, I would have, because it would have been our blood. I am so sorry.

Jennifer said...

Dear Diary,

I’m starting eighth grade with a mullet. I look like that Disney chick’s dad on that show that Marcy watches. Speaking of Marcy, I know you’re reading this so I can’t swear like I usually do because you’ll tell Mom. I don’t know how you keep finding my journal, but you do. I hate you so much. Yeah, run and tell mom that, too.

Back to my #$@* mullet. Mom’s friend Nancy was supposed to just trim the sides and keep the back long. But she was gabbing to Mom instead of paying attention to my head and she lopped off a bunch of hair at my ear! At least she didn’t go all Van Gogh on me! (You probably don’t even get that reference, Marcy. Only Nina, who is an artist extraordinaire, would understand it.) Then Nancy whacked the other side to make it look symmetrical. When Nina saw it she said that I look like one of the pictures on that yearbook-me site. Like from 1980 or whatever.

Nina thinks I should get it cut really short and streak it hot pink here and there and start 8th grade with old-school punk attitude. I wish I felt brave enough to do that. Nina would do it. Heck, Nina’s so brave she would probably shave her head. I’m going to have to find someone to fix my hair. The thing is, I have no money for a haircut and neither does Mom and that’s why Nancy cut it in the first place. You know whose fault this is, don’t you? Who else? DAD’s. We’re always broke because of him. If he’d get off his tush (I really hate you Marcy because I sound like a dork without my swear words) and send Mom money when he’s supposed to, then we wouldn’t have had to use Nancy. At least Mom’s hair turned out okay. She has a cute blunt cut and thick dark hair. I have her hair color, but it’s frizzy or fuzzy or curly, depending on what the #$% weather is like. Yeah, I have a curly mullet. So not cool!

Why does school have to start this week? I need at least another month to grow more hair and hide. The summer went by too fast. I have nothing to show for it except for my stupid #$% haircut. I didn’t even get a tan. Nina’s family went to Florida and Nina came back looking more awesome than usual. She’s so lucky. She's especially lucky because she doesn't have a snoopypants sister like I do.

I’m putting a big fat TDS at the top of this page. That’s a code word, Marcy. It means “This Day Sucks.” I haven’t had an “AD” or “Awesome Day” code in a long time. And no, “sucks” isn’t a swear word since Mom says it all the time. Gotta go. Mom’s calling me to dinner. Smells like Hungarian goulash. Again. TDS!

Ryan said...


I could have, should have, had him. Christy dumped him, slammed him - publically. It was like nothing I had ever seen, nothing I want to see again.
He was devastated. Oh, I was there, watching, waiting, hoping. I should have comforted him. I could have been there to hold his head to my shoulder, wipe the tears from his cheeks, build him back up.
I wasn't.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He turned from her, slammed his fist into the wall, and looked right at me. That was my moment and I flinched away.
Two years I have been waiting, watching, dreaming. Two years of broken relationship after broken relationship. Someday he will turn my way and I won't back down.
Today should have been that day. Instead Amber was there, Amber the skank. OH!!!

Didn't he learn anything from Jessica, Vicki, Amanda, Joslen, Elizabeth, or any of the others? They’re not right for him, none of them. Only me. Only me.

And Amber? What? Why? How? Ewe! How could they hook up?

That's okay, I will have him. I'll make him use mouthwash and shower, but I will have him.
I will break them up too, just like I did with all the rest.

Emily Hinchey said...

Dear Diary,

I spent the night of the homecoming dance babysitting.
The Farley kids were my dates. Mandy, my best friend, was supposed to help me babysit, but Josh asked her to the dance last minute. Mandy can’t stand Josh, but I’ve liked him since last year. I’m an inch taller than Josh, though, so he probably thinks of me as Amazon Woman. Whatever. At least the Farleys pay well. I’m saving up to be on the tennis team.

I started babysitting at six o’clock, about the time Josh was probably picking up Mandy. I imagined they were sitting down at a nice restaurant when Twin #1 had a diaper blow-out and the six year-old began dropping from the second-floor landing onto the sofa 15 feet below.

The twins were watching Snow White-- and I was trying not to envision Mandy and Josh sharing dessert-- when Cali (the six year-old) tried sticking her leg through the railings.

Of course, it got stuck.

I once heard that peanut butter gets crayon off the wall, so I figured it might work for stuck legs, too. The Farleys buy chunky, though, and it was too thick and sticky to make things slippery.

At this point, Cali was screaming bloody murder and Mandy and Josh were probably arriving at the dance. That’s when Rob, the oldest Farley and a freshman at my school, came home. He was on break from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. He’s kind of cute, but a major nerd. He tried pulling the rails apart while I yanked on Cali’s leg, but the girl’s got big knees.

Between Cali’s screams, Rob mentioned he was in my AP Spanish class. I knew that, but he thought maybe I didn’t because I’m always staring at the back of Josh’s head. He asked if I’m looking at the birthmark on Josh’s neck, because it’s shaped like a lima bean. I had always thought it looked more like a heart.

Rob thought Vaseline might work. As he greased up Cali’s leg, he asked if I was going to try out for the basketball team. Just because I’m tall, I told him, doesn’t mean I have to play basketball. He told me not to get all defensive and that Julia Roberts is 5 foot 11. That made me smile. It’s a big fat lie, which Rob must know, because he’s got pictures of Julia all over his Spanish binder. Just to be nice, I told him I’d think about trying out. When Cali’s leg was greased, Rob pulled on the railings again, and she got free.

Mandy came over then, all upset because Josh had picked her up an hour late and didn’t even dance with her. As she whined about her evening, I realized Rob had left without saying goodbye. I’ll have to thank him on Monday for getting out Cali’s leg. Maybe I’ll sit by him. That way I won’t have to look at Josh’s lima bean birthmark all through Spanish class.

JFilip4675 said...

Dear Chase,

By the time you read this it'll be over. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this earlier or talk to you about this but I knew you'd say no. You want this baby so much an, God I hate myself, I don't.

I'm not ready to be a mom. I don't want to be a mom. I don't even have my license yet! We have our whole lives ahead of us.

Please don't hate me but I...I can't face you right now. I think it may be best if we take a break. At least for a while. I don't blame you if you hate me. I hate myself.

Please forgive me.

I love you

Laura Pauling said...

Dear Diary,

I don't have much time. He's coming for me. After me. Oh my God.

I can't write the words down. No one can know. No one can read this. I'll whisper the words to you but I can't write them down. Sorry.

Today. This is my last day. There is so much I care about. I didn't know until this moment. My mom. Mom, if you ever read this. I forgive you. Sorry for being such a brat. And Corey, sorry for flushing your goldfish down the toilet.

In the past four days I feel like I've gone from 17 to 40. God that's ancient.

Wait. I hear something.

Oh crap.

Kelly Bryson said...

Dear Diary, January 6, 2010
I swam 2400 yards this morning, or close enough. I lost track of laps during the long set and I turned to ask Greg if that was 500 yards, or just 450, and he wasn’t there. And I wanted to cry and not care who heard me, but Bill was lifeguarding- saving for his own mission, I guess. I didn’t want it get back to my parents that I was losing it in the YMCA. But it was almost a relief to have a real reason to miss Greg. To know one certain thing that my brother is missed for. Nobody at school has asked about him in three days. I don’t have anything to say- he hasn’t emailed except the man who sat next to him on the plane accepted a Book of Mormon. But that was a few days ago and he won’t email again until his next ‘preparation’ day. It’s like he never existed.
Janie avoided me at church yesterday and I’m glad. It’s too much to see her without seeing Greg in the hall behind her running to catch up and ask her what movie she wants to go see. Her eyes were puffy, though. Next Sunday will be easier because she’s back at BYU, but I bet for her the whole campus is how the pool is for me. Like you’re always surprised that he’s gone. I don’t mean to sound like he’s dead. It’s just two years and it’s the right thing to do and I’m proud of him. But I wonder if he misses swimming. Is he so caught up meeting the other missionaries and learning Tagalog that he doesn’t even have time to think of us?
Mom’s yelling up the stairs that it’s family night. Yippee. I can’t wait to play scripture chase. Maybe they’ll agree to Mario Cart instead. Nah. The spirit of prophecy has revealed to me that we’ll be writing to missionaries. Every week for the next two years.

Resmiranda said...

Ghost hunting journal, November 2nd, final entry:

All results have proven inconclusive at best, boring at worst. I have tried everything I can think of, but nothing works. The piano he used to play has no strange vibrations around it, his favorite books show no signs of being read, and I almost broke the telescope he used for stargazing. There were no temperature fluctuations in the spot where he died, and even the one time I thought I heard him get up and go 'on patrol' was just mom going into the kitchen to get something to put her to sleep. (I even tested their bed for electromagnetic fluctuations, but mom hardly ever leaves the house so the experiment was aborted prematurely.)

Two nights ago was the final experiment. I took the gun he used, snuck out of the house, and went to his grave at midnight. The books all say that's when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.

Nothing. Just a stupid grave, and stupid me. I'm lucky I got the gun back in his drawer without waking mom up.

I'm an idiot. Ghosts are supposed to be spirits with regrets and things left undone, and I thought maybe there was something he might want to tell me before he passed on for good. Like maybe some advice or apologizing for not being able to give me away when I get married, but maybe if he had anything to say he would have written a note.

I guess he left for a reason.

joannehuspek said...

If there were ever a case to be made for the invention of wizards, for magic to be made a college course, for a sure sign of the paranormal, now would be time for revelation.
A crazy woman is kidnapping me!
Just my luck, Harry Potter doesn’t sweep down from the heavens, Edward Cullen neglects to freeze time and Buffy’s not around to save the day.
Are they blind to the insane woman dragging me up the aisle against my will? I slipped a note scribbled on a McDonald’s paper napkin to the gate agent. "My name is Amberly Cooper and I’m being held hostage. Call 911." She unfolded it, took one look and tossed it into the trash under her desk. What a total waste of ink.

Telepathy doesn’t work. I might as well be invisible I’m that powerless. I turn on my sad eyes for the businessmen in First Class, the smelly hippie in Row 16, a flight attendant caked with way too much make up and a grandmother in the seat in front of us. I will force them to look at me by the sheer will of my superior mind. HELP ME! Damn it. They ignore me, all of them, which is a major bummer. My sad eyes always worked on Dad. It was my guaranteed sure ploy when whining and reason failed to get the job done. One look and voila! I get everything I want.

Tonight I get nothing. I want to scream and cry out loud but if I couldn’t convince Summer’s mom why would a plane full strangers believe me?
It’s hot, it’s late, my backpack is heavy, I have a headache and I want to go home.
PV. Palos Verdes, that’s my home. But she says we can’t live there anymore.
While she crams her Prada bag into the overhead bin, I steal the window seat. She hates being in the middle almost as much as flying commercial, but I don’t care. Why should I do anything nice for her? I try not to cry as I power up my iPod but then I see a familiar bag on the asphalt below me. It has to be mine – it’s one of a kind. No one else has a humongous hot pink suitcase. I channel my exceptional mind toward the baggage handlers. If my bag were invisible they would forget it. I could rush to the front of the plane and fling myself out the door to rescue it. Hopefully before they pull the walkway back because it looks like one hell of a step down. I’ll roll it back to the house myself, even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass and scorpions and dodge careening traffic on the I-10. Even if it takes days.

Damn it. No such luck. I watch them grab my bag. They throw my entire life into the black hole right beneath my seat.

Scott said...

Life sucks . . . BIG TIME! I’m so tired of dealing with it! Why couldn’t I have been born normal? Why did it have to be me? Why couldn’t “it” have happened to someone else?

“It” didn’t happen to someone else. “It” happened to me.
“It” sucks. I mean, Mom’s gonna like totally freak out if she ever finds out. I’ll destroy her perfect life and have to listen to ‘what will everyone think’ over and over and over again. Then, she’ll make me go talk to a priest, and probably a shrink as well.

She’ll think there’s a cure!

I wish there was a cure.

I wish I could change how I feel, what I feel. I can’t.

I’m so tired of people thinking they know me, and making their snarky comments.

They don’t know me. They don’t have a clue what I’m going through.
Nobody does. I can’t tell anybody.

I wonder what normal feels like?

Violet Ingram said...

Dear Diary,
Today sucked. If I hadn’t been so distracted I’d have avoided the door and not broken my arm. An idiot lawyer, just like that ass Rosenthal, stormed out of Books N Things. The door smacked into me and I fell onto to the concrete. David was there and took me to the hospital. The same damn hospital where mom died. I’ve avoided the place for almost four years.

On the front page of the local news was a picture of Peter Rosenthal. The city is giving him a Good Samaritan Award. I guess they’ve chosen to forget how he got behind the wheel of his Jaguar drunk and killed my mother. Un-freaking believable.

The only good thing is its summer break. I don’t have to worry about dealing with running the store, taking care of my sisters, and my senior year of college all with a broken arm. Well, I still have to deal with the first two. Olivia insists that she’s in love with Richard and that as soon as she graduates in two years they’re getting married. I don’t trust him.

Of course, Miranda is a handful. She thinks since she just graduated from high school that she shouldn’t have to answer to me anymore. I’m worried about her. All she wants to do is party.
Maybe I would too if I hadn’t had to grow up overnight.

I’m tired. I’m going to go take a pain pill and call it a day.

Cassandra Holston

Jennifer Towery said...

Dear Stranger,

I wanted to say Dear Friend but my dad would never tolerate a fact error in the first sentence.

He’s asked me to write you every year for three years and I never have. You haven’t exactly been unthanked. Dad never let me see his letters to you, but I bet they were perfect. Hey, maybe someday you can show them to me? Assuming we ever meet, of course, which I shouldn’t assume but Dad said one day we might. Meet, I mean. Not assume. I’ll tell you now, in case he didn’t mention it, that my inability to speak and write as precisely as him was a Great Disappointment in his life. Mom said hers was my unwillingness to try on clothes before I bought them. I say they should have had more kids. One of them could have gotten the word gene and the make-Mom-happy gene.

Here’s a word to make Dad happy: Macabre. That’s what the annual thank you letter is. I could write it in three words. “What he said.” I saw how long his letters were. He found hundreds of words to say thanks, each one perfect. I can’t compete. “BTW, thanks! :-)” Dad said that’s how he knew journalism was dying – he kept having to edit emoticons out of interns’ stories. I think he was kidding.

He told you about his job, I bet. It was his life, and since he owed you his life, really he owed you for his job. God, I hope you’re not one of those it’s all the media’s fault types, because if you are then you feel really cheated right now. Join the club, I say.

Daddy told me how old his donor was when he died. He was too young. Did you say goodbye? Did you give us his lungs to keep him here? Are you sorry? I said goodbye to my dad, but instead of him dying, someone else died and Dad got his lungs. Not very fair, I know. Life’s not fair, my dad said, right up to the day he died.

I hope that wasn’t news to you, that he’s gone. That’s why I’m writing, for me and Mom, so you don’t think we quit caring. We didn’t get to say goodbye this time, and she can’t deal. He fell asleep and never woke up. It’s ironic that he about suffocated before he got new lungs, then his heart just quit. One heart attack, three broken hearts. Dad would be so proud I used the word “ironic” correctly.

I still haven’t thanked you. I don’t have the words. You saved him, and he died anyway. You gave us time, but not enough. I’m too young. But I want you to know I get the sacrifice you made. I can’t compete.

Dad was a fan of the six-word novel. Maybe six can be enough, at least until I’m old enough to get the words right.

Thanks for lungs. Please send heart.


Cory Clubb said...

Dear D,

There’s nothing on TV. I’m tired, but can’t sleep. I’m nervous about tonight. There’s something lurking in my closet, something dirty brushing filth and scum all over my wool sweaters and freshly cleaned shirts, like that yellow one I wore when Dan and I had that long kiss under the Dodge Street Bridge, a tingle of touch and a shimmer of excitement.

It was raining that night, well like Dan said it was more of a drizzle. Why does he argue with every little detail? I guess it doesn’t matter. His honest take on the small things captures me. (As does his tight jeans.) Even though we don’t always see things the same way, I still lay here and long for his arms around me, defending me. What’s it like for him? I may never know. What I do know is my current boyfriend, Kyle, has never kissed me the way Dan does.

But now, as my clock’s red numbers turn past midnight, it’s John’s time. He’ll be creeping out of the closet soon. Why did he want to hide in there, before he…it’s probably the reason I can’t sleep, those revolting eyes watching me. I knew John was a freak the second the bitch introduced him. The way those eyes glazed over me and Sissy that first time, made me want to throw up.
Yet the deal stands: Me instead of Sissy.

Although, what I do tonight may change things forever.

Wish me luck.

Anonymous said...

Dear Computer,

Shot out the neighbor girl's window with my dad's pellet gun today. Big mistake. Cops came. They wanted to search my room for the pellets, but Mom wouldn't let them in so they're coming back with a warrant.

Meanwhile, got to study for the AP physics test. Ballistics is part of physics, right?

In other news, Rachel's coming over this weekend. Sweet. This could be the weekend.

Am I evil? Yes I amn.


Tara said...

Dear diary,

Oksana left today. Dad's parting words were "Never believe a mail-order bride when she says I love you." He was so chin-trembling, tear-stained-cheek sad watching her tear up our lawn that I wanted to cry just looking at him.

Oksana, on the other hand, was throwing her luggage around and cursing him in Russian. I wasn’t sure how safe it was for either of us standing by the living room window with so much glass around.

Dad always said she was different. I thought he was referring to the Belarusian catalog she came from, but his tears were genuine.

He whispered, “Sorry about the eggs.” This morning, Oksana accused him of deliberately making runny, undercooked eggs. It escalated to an accusation of salmonella poisoning. Finally, she revealed the real reason for the argument.

Dad and I both know that she keeps this house so clean you can eat out of the sink, drink from the toilet, and perform surgery on the kitchen table. And neither of us thanked her for it. I guess I stopped noticing what she did for us when I began expecting it.

Dad thinks she'll come back. Every time she's left us, she's come home apologetic after the mall closed. I haven't told him that this time is not like the previous ones. I saw her take the kitchen timer. Who takes a kitchen timer with them when they leave? People who move.

Just before she left, she paused in her ranting and looked at me. Her expression softened like she was going to cry too. Could it be that Oksana, the step-mom with the maternal instincts of a broom, was going to miss me? That's when she waved good-bye to me slowly, three times with one hand, and got in the car.

As she backed out the driveway, I think I surprised her as much as she surprised me by mouthing the words "thank you."

chris said...


I almost addressed this entry to God, since it feels like my last few entries have been prayers. Then again, I don’t feel like I know how to pray, and I’m definitely not sure God would listen if I tried it.

I guess I’ve officially entered the numbness stage. I haven’t cried at all today. I stared at the wall for an hour trying to make myself cry, but nothing happened. And I really don’t care anymore. My history test is tomorrow and I haven’t studied and I don’t care, even if it means I don’t get an A this year. What good does it do me if I know the last paragraph of the I Have a Dream speech??? I don’t have any dreams. All of my dreams left with him.

463 days. That’s how long we were together.

2 days. That’s how long it’s been since he left.

Am I dead yet? The only way I’m sure I’m still alive is because I have to pee every 25 minutes.

Steph called just now and said I should write down all the bad things about him that I can think of. She said she did that one time after she got dumped and it helped her get over it. So here it goes…

1. He’s gone
2. ???

Thanks a lot Steph. You just reminded me how perfect he was. He never did anything wrong. NOTHING! I felt alive when I was with him. He knew me better than anybody has ever known me and he never … STOP IT! I’m supposed to be writing all the bad things about him, and all I can think of is the good things.

Okay, then, God. If you’re up there or out there somewhere, and you’d actually listen to me, then can you explain why you let him leave? Why would you let me fall in love with somebody who was going to walk away when everything was perfect? Wouldn’t it have been just a little bit easier to have kept us from ever meeting in the first place? Don’t you think that would’ve been better?

I have to pee again.

Rusty said...

I emerge from the bathroom with my day pack, a sleeping bag and a duffel bag of clothes. I have $150 in my pocket, which Mom pulled from Dad's wallet before leaving me stranded here. Actually, I have a little more than that – I brought along $27 for the trip.

Mom also tossed me a cell phone charger, but that won't do much good because it only works in a car. What I could use is a car.

And a map that shows Klamath, California on it. This one, from an Automobile Club, doesn't. And why would it? Who stops here?

I'm sitting down on a log to call Ash in the Trees of Misery (my name for it) parking lot. More to the point, I'm sitting in the shadow of a giant blue ox. A 49-foot high Paul Bunyan stands beside the ox, beckoning tourists to gape at the absurdity of it all.
I'm wondering whether my 'rents are circling back to get me. Maybe it's against the law to leave your 17 year old loitering by the highway? Still, Dad seemed pretty pissed off, and I would rather not see him for a while. Or talk to him for that matter.

I have never hitchhiked. My 'rents used to do that, back in their day, but nobody trusts strangers anymore. In fact, I have never been anywhere except to San Diego and summer camp on my own.

I am nowhere near home.
A dude in a black Aerosmith t-shirt, with scraggly sideburns down to his chin, approaches me and my new home on this redwood log. He's in his 20s and has a goatee that makes me think he's a carpenter or a drug dealer. I'm guessing it's the latter.

"Hey," he says, "what on earth is this place? Are you getting any signal?"

I shake my head sideways and gaze down at my day pack.

"Whatever," he says, and walks off.

I'm usually a little friendlier than that, but I need to figure out what to do. I get up and walk to the gift store.

I buy licorice and bottled water and then try to figure out how many miles it is to the next town south of here. Let's see, it's 360 miles to San Francisco. And then it's another 450 miles or so to San Diego. Crap. Eureka is 60 miles away but there's something a little closer called Orick. I must have blinked when we passed it in the RV.

A fat Blue Jay lands on my redwood log. He seems just about as real to me as the characters guarding this oasis. Clearly this fellow makes a good living cleaning up after tourists. I'm tempted to fling him a Red Vine, but he's probably more discriminating than I am.

A light rain sprays the Trees of Misery.

Carolyn V. said...

Dear frap-tac-ular diary,

So I was sitting there in computer lab today when who should come up and talk to me but Hottie-hot guy himself - Turk Winston!

He was like, “Hey I just bought one of those. So how do you like that new mouse?”

And I thought, Holy chimpanzees! Hottie-hot guy is talking to me.

That’s when my mouth took off without my brain and started saying things like, “Oh my gosh! How did you know I got a mouse for Christmas?!” And “ I totally love him. He’s white with pink ears and sooo cute, except for that rash he’s got on his butt. Does your mouse have a rash anywhere on him, like his butt or something--“

Jamie , my bbf, who was standing behind said Hottie-hot guy started waving her arms like she was starting a competition for a car race. And I was like - What? - in my head, because I was talking to Hottie-hot guy and he was talking to me! Hello.

Except I noticed I wasn’t shutting up and more and more words were spewing out of my mouth.

Why didn’t I stop speaking?

“So, what kind of ointment do you use on your mouse?” Yes. I found an ending point to my vomit-ous words.

“Um--” Turk just stood there with his mouth wide opened. “I meant…that mouse.” He pointed to my desk where the school’s new wireless mouse for the computer lay under my hand.


Yeah. I said oh. Stupid, stupid mouth.

And after all that talking about mice, butts and ointment, you would think I could think of something clever to say. Nope not one intelligent word. I just sat there with my face super hot and one of those straight smiles you see on a runner up of a beauty pageant contestant’s face.

Turk said, “Okay, bye.”

Not, “See ya later.” Or even “Don’t worry about it, I could have made that mistake too.” Nope, just “Okay, bye.”


Beth Terrell said...

Joey likes to vomit. It’s his thing, you know, like some kids like to whistle, and some kids like to throw rocks. At meals, Mom keeps an empty quart milk carton beside his plate so he’ll have something to throw up in. It looks gross and smells even grosser, but after awhile you get used to it. Last week, my friend Cindi asked why I never asked her to stay over for dinner, and I made something up about how my mom is into health foods and I wouldn’t subject my friends to her millet and wheatgrass lasagna. Sometimes it scares me how easy I can lie. But some things you just can’t explain.

After dinner, Joey gets his favorite plastic plate out of the bottom cabinet. It’s the same color as his eyes, a light blue the crayon box calls cornflower. He sits on the kitchen floor, Indian-style, and spins the plate, sometimes for hours. Sometimes, like tonight, I sit beside him with a plate of my own and spin it with him. I can tell it makes him happy, because he starts this little humming thing. Like a chant, almost. “Woh, woh, woh,”

Mom watches, and when I get tired of spinning the plate and put it away, she always does the same thing. She pats my hair and says, “You’re a good sister, Lizbeth.”

I don’t say anything, because I know it isn’t true. There are lots of things I don’t say. I don’t say, he acts weird, and he makes weird noises, and I wish he wasn’t my brother. I don’t say I wish he would die.

All I can do is make myself smile and watch my little brother, who is seven years old and as cute as a cartoon cherub. My little brother, who I almost sort of love, except that he’s the reason I will never be popular and probably never even have a boyfriend.

“Woh, woh, woh,” Joey says, spinning his plate and rocking. “Woh, woh, woh, woh.”

Krista G. said...

Haven’t written in this thing for almost four years, but I thought it was a good idea, since...well, since tonight’s the big night. The night I get to harpoon me some shark.

So this is kind of like a suicide note, I guess, except opposite. It’s a murderer note. No, not a murderer note--an executioner note. In two and a half hours, I’ll be an executioner. Hermes will be dead and his company will be gutted--and Mom will be avenged. And I’m the one who gets to avenge her. I should be excited. I should be ECSTATIC. So why are my hands shaking as I’m trying to write this?

Stupid pen. I’ve been trying to scratch out that last sentence for the past two minutes, and now that I’m just moving on, the stupid thing starts working again. I AM excited. I am. I’m glad that Mom won’t have died for nothing.

Dad bought me a new dress for tonight. It’s black, from that little shop up on Durango. He said we could afford it. You only go to the Last Banquet once, right? That’s what he said, anyway. I should go put it on.


Seth asked me out on a date. A shark. Asked me out on a date. Me, the Shark killer. I told him no. What else could I say?

Bug09 said...

Dear Nobody,

I stuck my finger down my throat today, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t force myself to puke the way she does, the wasted calories trying to hide themselves in the bathroom garbage.
I had thought that maybe she had stopped, but now I know it was just the dreamer me trying to convince the realistic me that everything is ok. It’s not. Just ten minutes ago I walked into the bathroom and found the puke on the toilet seat again. The house smells sour, pungent; it’s not just the bathroom she’s affected, just like it’s not only her that this sickness affects. It’s everyone.
There are days, mornings when I don’t want to go to school, that I stand and take a long look at myself in the mirror. I see my reflection—she looks the same as usual: wild, dark hair that needs taming, blue-grey eyes, dimples. But some days, she looks fat, and I think, if only I could lose ten pounds…
She did it and got away with it. I bet I could too. If I could do it, we would be identical again. I wouldn’t be referred to as “the bigger one” or “the one with the fuller face,” anymore when people try to tell us apart. We could be best friends again, looking at Cosmos and not talking about how hungry we are.
She doesn’t realize the pain it causes everyone. If she did, I don’t think she would do it. But, I know this is the dreamer me talking again, the realistic me getting drowned out, but I don’t think I care anymore.

Ryan said...

Wasn't going to enter but after getting a good laugh from other people's entries, I dug out an old journal for some material and whipped this up real quick. Makes me want to take my wife out for a teenage date night this weekend. Classic stuff.

Dear Journal

Today was the worst ever. Yes, I’m writing about Becky again. The reality of things with Becky is this: There is no reality with Becky! I know she will always be there for me but I wish she could be WITH me too. My friends would think I’m such a dork if they read this. First I was tied in knots and didn’t know what to do. Then, I just did it.I told her how I felt. It was like an explosion. Now, it’s over. How can that be? It’s not over; it never began. So….maybe this is the beginning! Yes,that’s it. The school year has just started and I have three classes with her. She didn’t think I was a dork; it just surprised her. That’s all. It just surprised her. Tomorrow, I will say nothing. Just “Hello” for at least a week. All she gets is a “Hello” for making me feel this way. I hope she’ll be OK with that.

Francis Herrand said...

Thursday Feburary 12, 2004

Why does this happen to me? Everytime I have a good moment my parents drag me back to cutting myself. I can't believe how much pain I go through with them. Maybe all this is a sign. Do I belong alive? After what happened today... I dont think so. My father came home drunk once again. But this time, my mother wasn't home. I don't think I've ever felt a greater physical pain. My whole body is filled with bruises.... But that's nothing. Do you know what it feels like to be stabbed in the heart everyday at every moment? Or as if you had a knife inside slicing your heart slowly so you can feel as it divides inch by inch? Well I know a greater pain. A pain that can never be matched or cured because you can never forget when your own father beats you senseless. Or when your own mother tells you you're worthless and the biggest mistake she's ever made. Sad part is that, after a while you start to believe it and you think... why am I alive? So you search for a way out of the pain and in the end you'll find there's two ways out. You can either stop the pain along with your heart or you can find a greater pain and watch you blood drip. If you're choice is the second, later in time you'll find that not even that can stop the pain you feel inside. All it does is ease it. But the little pain that is left resides in your heart until it's unbearing. Once again you find yourself right back where you started. So what's your next move??? What will mine be??

b.stewart said...

Dear Jen,

I want to promise you, I guess, and explain. I don't want to kill myself, really. It's just – okay, Mom just tried to hug me, and I – well, I did whatever I do when she tries to hug me, and she got that look on her face that always makes me feel like I should just crawl into a hole and die. That that would be better.

I just want to escape that look. And things like it.

It's not like I could even do it if I tried again. After that first time when I was seven Mom told me about this kid in her neighbourhood when she was a kid who tried to do it THREE times before he was twelve. Jumped out a window. When that didn't work, laid down in the middle of the street. I guess his third attempt worked, 'cause Mom's never told me about that one.

I think she told me all that to make me feel better, but it just made me feel like a failure. Like a stupid, scared little boy.

It's Mom's bad luck, I guess, that they had me until I was six. The brain does most of its development before the age of five, so … yeah. When she found me, I didn't remember her, or my real name. Mom tells me that the people who took me loved me. I guess back then when I was little and trying to kill myself, I didn’t believe her. I’d have panic attacks in the night and she would hold me and tell me she would never let anyone hurt me, ever again.

But she already had. There was nothing that could keep it from happening again if it had happened already, even if she really loved me, she'd already let it happen once. I would ask, snot running down my face, how she would do it? What if the bad people came here with a gun?

I would stand in front of you, she said.

I never told her about the images in my head, the nightmares, because she would have no way of knowing she’d failed me. No parent can ever really reassure you, I guess. And my mother didn’t have the imagination necessary to realize that standing in front of a gun for me would do nothing but force me to watch my mother die before that gun was turned on me.

And sometimes when I dream, I’m still David.

That's what … that's what I need to get away from, Jen. That's why I don't, like, try things with you. And it's something I really need to escape if I ever actually want to … live. So I guess I need to find things that will almost kill me. And be fun at the same time. Maybe that will be enough.

And I guess I hope sometime you'll help me with that. I just need to figure out how to ask.

- Pete

Emily Hinchey said...

Dear Diary,

I spent the night of the homecoming dance babysitting.
The Farley kids were my dates. Mandy, my best friend, was supposed to help me babysit, but Josh asked her to the dance last minute. Mandy can’t stand Josh, but I’ve liked him since last year. I’m an inch taller than Josh, though, so he probably thinks of me as Amazon Woman. Whatever. At least the Farleys pay well. I’m saving up to be on the tennis team.

I started babysitting at six o’clock, about the time Josh was probably picking up Mandy. I imagined they were sitting down at a nice restaurant when Twin #1 had a diaper blow-out and the six year-old began dropping from the second-floor landing onto the sofa 15 feet below.

The twins were watching Snow White-- I was trying not to envision Mandy and Josh sharing dessert-- when Cali (the six year-old) tried sticking her leg through the railings. Of course, it got stuck. I once heard that peanut butter gets crayon off the wall, so I figured it might work for stuck limbs, too. The Farleys buy chunky, though, and it was too thick and sticky to make things slippery.

At this point, Cali was screaming bloody murder and Mandy and Josh were probably arriving at the dance. That’s when Rob, the oldest Farley and a freshman at my school, came home. He was on break from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. He’s kind of cute, but a major nerd. He tried pulling the rails apart while I yanked on Cali’s leg, but the girl’s got big knees.

Between Cali’s screams, Rob mentioned he was in my AP Spanish class. I knew that, but he thought maybe I didn’t because I’m always staring at the back of Josh’s head. He asked if I’m looking at the birthmark on Josh’s neck, because it’s shaped like a lima bean. I had always thought it looked more like a heart.

Rob thought Vaseline might work. As he greased up Cali’s leg, he asked if I was going to try out for the basketball team. Just because I’m tall, I told him, doesn’t mean I have to play basketball. He told me not to get all defensive and that Julia Roberts is 5 foot 11. That made me smile. It’s a big fat lie, which he must know, because he’s got pictures of Julia all over his Spanish binder. Just to be nice, I told him I’d think about trying out. When Cali’s leg was greased, Rob pulled on the railings again, and she got free.

Mandy came over then, all upset because Josh had picked her up an hour late and didn’t even dance with her. As she whined about her evening, I realized Rob had left without saying goodbye. I’ll have to thank him on Monday for getting out Cali’s leg. Maybe I’ll sit by him. That way I won’t have to look at Josh’s lima bean birthmark all through Spanish class.

Cheryl said...

Dearest Stupid Diary,

Must this happen every freakin' day? I mean, come on, how witless are they all? Why won't they just leave me alone?

My day started like every other school day. The kids at the bus stop hooting and hollering, jumping this way and that, waving the ole middle finger around, and laughing. Same old same old.

All because I can't see them. Well, I can hardly see them. Everything is a blend of colors. I see the movement, but I can't make out one single face. They think it is funny to do these things to me. They are such babies. I think they have nothing going on in their brains. Such a waste of space.

I HATE my glasses and I won't wear them, not even for one second. They are big and plastic and hideous. I told my mom I hated them, but she didn’t even hear me. She has no idea I don't wear them outside of the house. I will never wear them. I would rather suffer the consequences than be seen with a hunk of plastic on my face. Why is it that I choose to be tormented rather than wear glasses? It’s because they make me look like an owl. A huge old hoot owl. Not happening in this life. Ugggggggg.

So my day goes as usual. I can't see the board and I flunked my math test. Yawn yawn. I don’t really care. And then some kids were giving me the finger as I walked past them. Nice, really nice. They don’t know that I can see when they are like FIVE INCHES IN FRONT OF ME. But I pretended they didn't exist.

I wish I could just move away and never come back. Move to a place where I fit in, where nobody was mean. Live in a place where I feel comfortable. Where I am not ugly. I wish I was beautiful. It would solve all my problems. I don’t think I am actually ugly. I am just nothing. Boring and blind. I don’t feel boring inside. I just act it on the outside.

I think I am going to break my glasses, or throw them in the trash. Maybe my mom will let me get contacts. I have money saved. But I know I need a lot more.

OK, going to bed now. Just so I can do it all over again tomorrow. Maybe, just maybe, they will realize that it is just not funny doing the same thing every morning!!!!! And maybe, just maybe, I will shock them all tomorrow.

The Ugly Hoot Owl

Jamie said...

Dear Diary,

New Years Day – Any Year.
Isn’t New Years Eve supposed to be grand? We are all supposed to celebrate new possibilities and beginnings? Instead this New Years Eve only highlighted the dark end to a chapter of me…….

Last year I was stuck babysitting an eleven year old! I shudder to even think about it, watching all the Star Wars movies, ALL of them!!! Of course little Michael never had a bedtime when he was being babysat!!! I hate that! I only watch him because his parents pay unbelievable, they kind of have to with a bratty kid like Mike……

Then there was the going back to school and hearing all the great things everyone else did. Everyone did crazy wild things at all the crazy wild parties.

Thank God, this year I’ve really come out of my shell, this year things have really come together for me. Or at least I thought so…. sometimes I’m so stupid……

Before School let out I was invited to the huge party that Sheldon was having. Sheldon’s not even in high school anymore and I got invited to HIS party!!! Not by Sheldon directly, but through a friend who knows someone who is good friends with Sheldon which was totally good enough!!

I knew this meant ditching my friends; Chris, Janet and Leanne were planning for months to drink themselves silly in Leanne’s basement while Leanne “watched the house”. I didn’t care – if they talked more to the right people maybe they would have got invited too!

It would have been the best New Year’s Eve, if I hadn’t been sooooo stupid on Boxing Day. Why did I do it? Why did I do it???
I always act so dumb around that boy, that college boy, just because he’s in college he thinks he is something special and he’s always wheeling me whenever he’s home, telling me I’m so much prettier then the college girls and he misses not seeing me. Why do I believe him? Why do I think he is special?

After that Boxing Day Bash I went for a drive with him. WHY??? Why did I let him pull over on that gravel road and why did I give in this time? What was different about that night?

Why on a gravel road!?! Where anyone could and DID find us! Where drunk, dumb Luke could stumble on us and see everything and tell everyone!!!! So my first time could be blabbered to the whole world!!!

I will never to the end of my days forget walking into Sheldon’s and everyone rushing to me, “So you did him hey?” That is all I heard. Thank God my real friends wrapped their arms around me when I showed up at Leanne’s. I’ve been so awful to them lately and they still held me while I cried… I only hope that next time that boy comes to town I run the other way!!

Oh God…. I hope I’m not pregnant….

Emily Hinchey said...

Woops... sorry for the duplication. Didn't think the first one worked.

britfit said...

Dear Diary,

We're safe. Ben and I left home yesterday once Dad was at work, and Mom asleep. She's always asleep now, so that part wasn't tricky.

After Mom's... accident shall we say? She hasn't been the same. So how am I supposed to tell her my secret? I won't. I can't.

So Ben is looking for a job, and I'm... well I'm writing everything down. I never saw myself in this position, but I plan to conquer any lingering fears and jump into whatever lies ahead.

Thank goodness I have this book. It's the last present my parents may have ever given me. There's no lock, and the pages are stained after I spilled my coffee on what I thought was a waste of gift.

Now I hold this spotted, faux- leather book in great esteem. It may be my means of survival for these next several months.

A hopeful Jenny

dan radke said...

To whoever finds my body, this is an account of what happened.

I got a call from my friend Joe. Well, maybe not a friend, I was surprised he had my number. Anyway, he called and the first thing he said was, “Woohoo, Danny-boy, you messed up.”

He asked me about something bad I wrote in a yearbook. But I wrote in ten yearbooks today, and thirty this week. I couldn’t figure it out. Then he read me a passage-

“I loved it last night when you said you could feel me in your stomach.”

Then I remembered. I wrote that in Stephanie’s yearbook. I like Stephanie. I mean, I don’t like-like Stephanie. But she’s a cool chick. Only thing is, I hate her boyfriend, Sam. Sam made fun of me and punched me in the stomach once during freshman year.

And that’s when Sam himself got on the phone and read me another passage.

“And to your boyfriend- Sam, I’m going to gouge out your eyes and fuck your skull. I’m not so fat anymore, am I you lanky son of bitch?”

Then he started yelling and stuff. I really meant the whole thing as a joke. It was first period when I wrote it and I was still sleepy.

The guy is kinda big. He’s like, the tallest guy in our school. 6'10 I think. He plays varsity basketball.

“How would you like it if me and my boys came over and you can try fucking my skull?”

I’m not much of a fighter. Especially of people that are a foot taller than me.

“Or maybe we’ll give this to the principal? The cops? This is a written threat.”

I told him I should probably be punished to the full extent of the law.

“I’ll think about it. You may see us later, faggot.” Then he hung up.

It’s been an hour so far. My parents aren’t home, and none of my friends want to come over.

I think I’ve lived a full life.


Rowena said...

August 19, 2009

Why is everybody asking me about starting high school when I just wanna enjoy the last two weeks of summer? Ever since my mother started graduate school, she became so in tune with the school year beginning and ending, and, of course, with just two weeks left of summer, she had to ask. I honestly, am ambivalent. I grew up on the beach and in the ocean, with a mother who never acted like a mother, and with books and video games (to keep me company). I love mostly everything about my life and starting high school is just not that exciting to me. Plus I have a weird feeling that things are going to change.

I’m happy that my mother has something that she’s working towards and that seems to really matter to her, in contrast to how she had seemed so aimless during my whole childhood. I was the little girl with homemade Valentine’s cards that were finished five minutes before I had to leave for school and then when I got home from school she was nowhere to be found. She always came through at the last minute and then she disappeared, as if the stress of doing motherly things drove her to drink or sparked a need to be alone. I learned how to find her—she was either at the yoga studio, at the bead store, or at the bar. I always prayed that it was never the last one.

So on top of asking me about school, she also let me know that my dad is coming to visit this weekend. Argh! I never really grew up knowing my dad, but everybody seems to love him, even my mom still after his inconsistent presence in our lives and after nearly 10 years of not being in the same city with the man. He plays instruments and produces records for famous musicians, all of whom are African American and made music that was labeled “Rhythm and Blues,” “Soul” or simply “Black music.” I grew up listening to Sly and the Family Stone, the Temptations, Smokey Robinson (with and sans The Miracles), and, my personal favorite, Diana Ross (with and sans The Supremes).

I didn’t know what to say at the point so I tell my mom that I needed to take a shower. My dad coming to town always stirs up a mixture of feelings and emotions. I love seeing him, but couldn’t help but also resent him for not sticking around, for being so handsome and charming that for a very long time, my mother could not seem to get over him. He was always so fun and loving that I often forgot about the bad things until he actually left again.

TKAstle said...

So, Dad,
You should know Mom's making me write this. Duh. Sometimes it's such a pain having a psychologist for a mother. Did she do this kind of stuff to you, too?
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, right?
I guess I should start by telling you what I know. I know you didn't mean to die. I know it wasn't your fault. You weren't the one who was driving drunk. I also know you never would have wished this kind of hell on anyone. Ever. If you're still out there somewhere, I know you still love me. (That is if you even remember me.) I know all that crap, but there's so much I don't know that sometimes what I do know doesn't make any difference.
Will I ever be happy again? Screw 'happy.' Will I ever feel even remotely close to normal again? Will I ever make it through one whole day without crying? Will I ever see you again? Are you alive somewhere or is death the end of everything?
And, I don't mean to burst anyone's bubble or anything, but did you know that your wife and your son have forgiven that _____ who killed you? (I won't say what I want to call him. You'd be disappointed in me.) Don't worry, though. I'll never betray you like that.
Writing this is supposed to be helping, but I'm just getting more and more pissed the longer I write - so I'm gonna stop.
Before I do, I guess I should tell you that I miss you so freakin' bad ALL the time. I really did not know a person could hurt this much and still stay alive. So, hah, I guess it would make Mom happy to know that at least I'm learning *something* from all this _____.

Love (even more than I ever told you),

Stephen said...

November 12

Today I figured out God’s real name.

It’s Whim.

Destroyer of Dreams fits better. But Whim sounds more poetic and might even be a little bit clever and I think it shows initiative on my part. Maybe if Whim sees I’m really trying here he might give me a break. That’s not asking much. Not after today.

And, yes, this is about Becky. When is it ever about anything else?

Fourth period. Geometry. (This is somewhat ironic, considering what happened. I think “ironic” is the right word.) We were supposed to be solving problems Mr. Griner had scribbled on the blackboard, but it just seemed like busywork to me. Something to buy time so he could finish grading yesterday’s quiz. He looked pretty out of it today. Very un-teacherly. Hung over maybe.

I could have solved the problems easily enough. But instead, I unbent a large red paperclip I’d found in my pocket and started using it to etch away at the top of my desk, not really thinking about what I was doing. I was thinking about Becky.

I was trying to figure out what she meant when she said “yeah” the other day. It was pretty much the first word she’d said to me since school started, and technically speaking she didn’t really say it to me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to her "yeah" than simple agreement with my complaint to Mr. Griner about giving us too much homework.

So I’m scratching away at the desk when the paper clip sticks against a stubborn spot and then suddenly springs back, flying out of my fingers in a parabolic arc over my left shoulder.

Without thinking or even looking, I twisted to my left and reached out to snag the paperclip. Apparently, the very moment the paperclip had sprung away from my desk, Becky had stepped into the aisle.

So…instead of grabbing the paperclip, I grabbed Becky’s ass. Not a good kind of grab, like I’ve daydreamed about. But a weak, embarrassing half-pinch. She spun around and yelled “hey” and glared at me. I opened my mouth to explain, but her eyes had already shifted to my desk. She was looking at the unfinished etching. That’s when she said “pervert” and stormed away.

It was supposed to be a skateboard. I don’t know why I was etching a skateboard into my desk. I don’t skate. I never have. I never will. Skateboards are for children and stoners. The thing is, I’d only etched two back wheels and the deck.

So…yeah. It looked exactly like a penis. A big, fat, erect penis.

Good one, Whim.

Patrice said...

Wed. 4/16
She watched me today. Freakin ace. It’s been twenty-seven days since she said it. Twenty seven days of losing races, messing up cosines and waking up in a sweat. During warm up, McGill was going on, as usual, about what he got last night but I was barely listening, knowing she was there, just on the other side of the glass in the teachers’ lounge. School was long over and I was the only reason she had to be there. I went through the motions, stretching best I could, mostly staring at the asphalt and waiting for a solution to pop into my brain. Even before I cornered the track and saw her there, I could feel her on me, over the crest of my shoulders and down my spine, my torso, my sore hamstrings. I could smell that honeydew gum she chews.

I’ve thought of dozens of different ways to approach her, but they’d make me out to be an immature jerk. It’s hard enough for me to talk to high school girls, forchrissakes. Maybe I should just try to get detention.

Sometimes, at night, I think about what it would be like with her. I think about my mom finding out, and for a few minutes I force myself to forget the whole crazy idea, but those words still torture me. While McGill was bragging about Liza, I watched Ty and the other guys latch onto his every word, like its the closest thing to an experience they’ll ever have. Then, I started thinking about that microphone around her neck and how every time she puts it on, I stare at the buttons on her blouse. When she reaches for symbols high on the white board, I concentrate on the outline of her waist. The backs of her calves. She knows I’m watching and she knows I’m wanting.

Twenty-seven days ago. She pulled up the chair next to my desk, her body just a breath away, too close for a teacher. With a deliberate grin that confused me, she said, “I want what you want.”

She owns me.

sarah said...

I, Rebecca Smith, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.

If my mother, Camille Hannah Smith, does not predecease me, I bequeath to her all my possessions, except for the following items to be given to certain parties. If my mother does die before I do, all items are to be auctioned off on ebay (except for items mentioned below) and moneies raised are to be given to William Travis High School for a demon hunting club. The world will need all the help it can get.

As for the items to be handed out otherwise...

To Tori Hodges, my best friend in the entire world. I wish we had met sooner. I leave you my charm bracelet. May it not fail to protect you. I also leave you contents of my secret stash beneath my bed. Try not to spend it all in one place.

To Caleb Jackson, my love - I already gave you something that no one else will ever be able to take. Of course, when Mom, or Tobias, or even Dottie reads this, they will make into a personal whipping boy for "deflowering" me. Tori would probably just say "way to go, lover boy."

To Tobias of no last name. I leave you a swift kick in the pants. That was all you gave me. I also leave you a right hook. Hopefully, Caleb will supply these to you. And a sound beating from Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy. They do like me better than you, you a-hole.

To Dottie Smith, my great-aunt, I leave the secret to cooking corn on the cob. Google “Alton Brown corn on cob”. You are a great cook otherwise, and I don’t know what else to leave you.

To Mrs. Petersen, the drum corps, the swim team, Mr. Putin – may you burn in the fiery pits of Hell and be forced to watch the worst reality TV shows ever made over and over and that Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy were the ones to deliver you there.

To Micah, Rem, Punch, and Judy – all of no last names. I know you did your best to save me. In a better time, you might have. Try not to end the world without me.

susannah said...

I saw him again last night. We’ve barely hung out since I’d got back from orientation, and he promised a fun night—he met me at work at eleven and we went to some club over near Essex. He knew the bouncer so I got right in, even though I’m sure he knew I wasn’t 21. I feel like I notice that all the time now, what a baby I am, especially after my epic UNC fail where it was blatantly obvious there’s nowhere I belong less than with a bunch of college people.

I don’t think I got the whole idea of a “meat market” until I got in there, but it did seriously look less like people and more like a bunch of chest/arm/stomach slabs to be ordered up. And so fucking loud! It totally wasn’t my scene and I don’t think it was his either, but the best part—really the only redeeming part about the whole experience—was the music, just good songs, one after the other, so we just danced. We haven’t danced since the first time we met, and it was even better than I remembered. At the party, I was freaked out just being close to him, but now it’s perfect. And there was no one watching and waiting to see what would happen, there was nothing but us, like he didn’t see anyone but me. Even though there were obviously so many other girls there, he barely ever looked at them, even when his friends were blatantly talking about them.

After we left, we went out to his car, and I’d thought I’d try to talk to him about what had happened in North Carolina, and our relationship, and everything, but… yeah. Even after what happened last week, I wasn’t scared—I knew he wasn’t really going to try to have our first time be in his car-and it was so incredible when he shoved back his seat and pulled me on top of him. It seriously took all the willpower I had not to tell him that yes, I wanted to, that the next time we were together and had the chance, I wanted to. And part of me still does, but I feel like if we slept together it would mean too much: like we’re really in love and this is a serious relationship. I always sort of assumed the first guy I slept with would be someone I was really serious about, but that isn’t how I think about him. I mean, I like him so much and he’d be sweet to me and not be a dick afterwards and would stop any time I asked him to—but I still basically lie any time people ask about him, especially my parents or Rosie. I don’t even feel comfortable going out with him and my friends because it always seems totally apparent that he’s older, even though I never notice when it’s just us—

mywriteside said...

My dear inanimate friend (Yeah, I know! Big word for a small town girl),
Well, I made to another new year! No, I won’t complain about being without a boyfriend for another year. I’m sure that’s what every other teenage girl is whining about right now. I’m just happy that I survived! This means there’s only one semester and one year until I am out of here! Thank God too! Most of the teachers around here are making me anxious.
I already knew a long time ago that I had no hand eye coordination, but my gym teacher seems rather determined to break my spirit so I can throw a goddamn softball properly. “Like this,” the teacher will say just before demonstrating the proper throw, as if it were SOO easy.
I think the teacher has lesbian tendencies. She is very much in love with the other girls in my class. I suppose it could be that they are on the softball team, and she is the coach. Ugh, that teacher is just like a horrible parent: selecting favorites, and then making the other siblings just like the favorite.
So anyways, softball. How is this ever going to help me in reality? I’ll file it with ‘Calculus’ in the folder LEAST LIKEY TO HELP ME IN REALITY. I will proudly state again: Only one semester and one year until I am out of here.
I’m sure you’re very curious as to whether I’ve made any resolutions this year. I made three actually: finish that novel I started way back when I was fourteen, apply to college, and get into college. Every piece of that still feels like a pipe dream.
I brought the college idea up to my parents again last night. They seemed wary, and didn’t feel I needed to travel far to get an education. They pushed for a local tech college, which was popular for large animal veterinarian students to attend. I loved animals, but I decided I needed to follow my love of words. My parents keep telling me, “I just don’t think we’ll have the money.” I hear them, I absorb what they tell me, but I still want to pursue what I want versus what is financially right. However, I don’t plan on looking into a private, religious-affiliated college. I don’t really feel like selling them my first born to pay off the debt.
I decided to start a new fashion this year, which I guess can be counted as a fourth resolution (I’m a fan of odd numbers. They reflect my odd personality). I’ve started wearing skirts over my jeans. Seems to piss off the locals. I can’t figure out what it is, but they seem upset with the confidence I develop when I actually wear something out of style to them. The truth is, I love my skirts, but I freeze my butt off in the winter wearing them. Jeans seemed logical.
Auditions next week for the musical ‘Annie.’ Wish me luck.

StarChaser said...

Sorry I was gone so long. Mom made me load the dishwasher and dump the trash. OK. Now where was I? Oh, yeah....

I reached inside his underwear [it felt humid inside, like being in the natatorium when a swim meet’s going on] and just grabbed IT.

As you know, I’d never touched one before. I was expecting “hard” and “a roundish head,” but what surprised me was “alive.” It had a heartbeat. It twitched in my hand.

I squeezed it to see if it would change shape, and he groaned. At first I thought I’d hurt him cas he pulled away from me. But a couple seconds later he was back, jeans and tighty-whities gone, and handed me a little package.

OK, I’ve seen condoms on TV shows but have never been up close and personal with one. He caught on I didn’t know what to do and took it from my hand.

As he rolled the condom onto himself, memories flooded back of health class last year when our counselor rolled a black one down a banana. At the time, I laughed, thinking it looked like the stupidest thing ever, like Mr. Hankie with a raincoat.

But I didn’t laugh this time. I thought it would kill the mood. And I didn’t want to kill the mood.

He hovered over me, like a sword to a sheath, and pushed. Even though his fingers had prepared the way, it killed to have him even a little bit inside me. Felt like he was pushing my entire body inside my vagina using a tennis ball.

I worried that the only way he was getting in was to tear something. I worried I wouldn’t be able to do this.

I tensed like a frozen popsicle. But he went slow, first in then out, again and again, and suddenly it was like, Aha! Behold! The miraculously expanding vagina!

Heat began to build inside me and I gripped his butt with my hands to hold him close as possible to the growing spot of pleasure that replaced the pain. We were breathing hard, and drops of his sweat fell from his face to mine. Normally sharing sweat is gross, but in this case I didn’t care: the good feeling was bubbling up.

Yeah, I know. You’ve been hearing about my orgasms for five years, since my first that summer I turned 11, but this one was different. Really! It was way more intense, like my soul was shot from my body and took a spin around the universe on a star.

He jammed into me, threw his head back, and growled like a wolf. He had just barely pulled out when we heard his mom coming downstairs. We threw on our clothes and he walked me home.

At my front door he kissed my cheek and pressed five crumpled twenties into my hand.

Not bad for 15 minutes work...and my first time. Once more, and that new nano is mine!

stephanie said...

Dear Diary -

September 27, 1991

(Isn't that the way I'm supposed to start this?)

Jason S. tried to talk to me after history today. I think it was because of Collin's comment last week about that other Mallory in the newspaper article, the one who "died" in the North Tower on 9/11 and shared my name, my background, my brother... and whose body hasn't been found. Stupid. If he'd ever said hello to me in the three weeks I've been at the high school, if he'd ever asked to copy my notes or walk me to Mr. Rossi's fourth block Italian I class, I might have cared a little more. Now I'll always wonder why he tried.

Really, I'm just glad they call her "that other Mallory," because if they didn't, I might have to tell Mom it's time to run again.

Sometimes I wish I could keep a real diary so that I could flip back through the pages later and see when this boy smiled at me or that teacher said something nice about a paper. Sometimes. But diaries and boys and papers seem pretty inconsequential when you're running for your life. If I keep you in my mind, diary, then I never have to worry about someone finding the key.

Jourdan Alexandra said...

Dear Diary,

Today was the first day of senior year.

It was also one of the most awful, rotten, unbearably painful days of my life. It was the kind of day that made me want to scream at the sun for having the audacity to shine and to hurl obscenities at all the smiling faces I came across. It was the kind of day that made me want to vanish into the wilderness, to lose myself and all the agonizing reminders of what I was forced to do. Maybe then my exhausted mind would allow me to forget. But even as I write this, I know I will never forget. The tragedy of what happened will be my burden to bear forever.

It’s been eight months since the first time Cole flashed his flawless grin at me; five months since we made love in the bed of his truck beneath an endless canopy of stars; and three months since the doctors scraped out the inside of my uterus and carefully disposed of the remains. All that wasted potential of what could have been, tightly sealed up in a biohazard bag, incinerator-ready. Thinking about it is excruciating; it makes me want to vomit.

I spent the summer in Miami at Grandma’s, but I never went out to enjoy the coastal weather. I stayed inside, holding my own private vigil, mourning and thinking. Thinking of what it would be like when I saw Cole again, fantasizing about the wonderful things he would say, things that would eradicate my sorrow and somehow make me whole again. His words were always so lovely—I suppose that’s what made me fall for him in the first place.

But today was a disaster, a mockery of how I dreamed it would be. He looked right past me as if I was invisible, ignored me as if I had never existed. As if we had never held hands as the sun set, as if we had never shared kisses in the spring rain, as if he had never told me he loved me. But he did tell me he loved me, and now I understand that it was just a cunningly crafted lie. Unfortunately, this realization arrived long overdue—it came too late.

I feel like he stole so much from me, so much that I will never get back. My virginity; the happiness I should have felt upon seeing a positive pregnancy test for the first time; the fun and excitement that this day could have been filled with. All this thievery has left me empty inside, alone and hollow.

I ended the day with the sickening sight of him flirting with Jenny Manchester by her new convertible. I wanted to run up and punch every inch of his stupid, beautiful face; I wanted to make him scream, make him bleed, like I did. But I didn’t—instead, I climbed into my car and cried.

I can only hope that tomorrow will be better.


Writer and Cat said...

Dear Computer,

You’ll be happy to know I didn’t get suspended today. I just got detention, for the throwing up. I guess I should be happy too, but why should I be about something that’s not fair? I can’t control when I throw up. I’m not like bulimic or something.

Mom won’t even do anything about it, even though she knows I didn’t steal the damn ashtray. Why would I want an ashtray when that’s why Daddy died? Seriously. She told me I was lucky I wasn’t suspended over this and should pick better friends. Yeah. Like it was my “friends” who lied to the assistant principal Mrs. B (B for Bitch) about my stealing the ashtray on the class trip. Hell no, it was punch-face Tishy and Gordon the Geek who were the liars. Jess maybe might have taken an ashtray, but she wasn’t the one called to the principal’s office over it. I was.

My purse isn’t even big enough to hide the ashtray I supposedly stole. The purse I carry every day, you know that one? That I showed Mrs. B? Which she searched without a warrant? And she said just because I thought my family was better than everyone else’s--which obviously it’s not, what with the food stamps and all--didn’t mean I could get away with murder. Which is the same as stealing an ashtray in Bitch world. She said I was lucky I wasn’t getting suspended too. Maybe next time her husband shows up near dinner hoping for an invite, I’ll tell her she’s lucky she’s not getting divorced. Like I don’t know what he wants from Mom, and it’s not her craptastic meatloaf.

So anyway, when I had to meet with Mrs. B today and bring the ashtray and the money to mail it back to the restaurant AND the humiliating letter to the manager about how I was a bad person and a thief who should be ashamed of herself--with my real name and address on it--what was I supposed to do? I didn’t have an ashtray. Or much money, but I unrolled my Christmas pennies and took those to her in a dirty sock.

She got all red and started yelling at me about disrespect and suspension and some crap about how the politest boy she ever met was the one who got to be valedictorian--like OMG who knows if I’ll be valedictorian when I’m a sophomore--which was when I puked on her shoes. I can’t help it, I get nervous. I swear she was going to hit me, but the principal walked in and she sent me to the school nurse instead.

I think maybe Mrs. B might have noticed it was her husband’s sock. Do you think that was pushing it?



Katie said...

I woke up this morning and looked up at the dying stars and remembered.
How could I not remember?

Sometimes it still feels surreal, like a dream I’ll wake up from. In a way I suppose it’s true; I’ll go to sleep forever and wake up with you. In the stars.
I sat and watched the sunrise and remembered. You and me… and Becky, sleeping out under the stars. We both loved you, as only teenage girls can love, but you chose her. I knew, and I understood. But it didn’t heal the aching emptiness when I saw the way you looked at her. Still, we were friends. We would laugh and talk and dream, share secrets and watch the stars.
Cold, merciless stars that did not care about our friendship.
Warm, mysterious stars, that took you to their midst.

I don’t talk about the accident but maybe I can tell you. I’m the only one who remembers what happened. I’m the only one who survived. The truck came so fast, there was nothing you could have done. Perhaps you know that much, wherever you are, that you were not to blame. You were driving and Becky was in the front seat beside you. You were both killed instantly. I was the one who woke up in the hospital, alone.

What is there to say? I miss you? You were my whole life! You and Becky. Sometimes I feel like it’s too much to wait for destiny. Sometimes all I want is to join you, dancing there with the stars. Yesterday that’s all I could think of. I was obsessed with the idea of killing myself. But I know it’s wrong. I know you wouldn’t want me to take my own life. And I woke up this morning and looked up at the stars and remembered.
How could I not remember?

Soup said...

I stopped sleeping since March. It’s 3:32 am right now and fml, what if I have insomnia. So I didn’t really stop sleeping but it’s pretty much the same thing. Lie in bed, wait until blue comes through the curtains, get up. Give or take an hour or two or three of closing my eyes. It’s the same thing.

When I get up in the morning there’s hair on my pillow—seriously, it looks disgusting and I can’t even sweep them off because they’re that bad.

It comes with sleep loss, I think. It’s sort of like bald people when they have cancer and get chemo which kills all your cells, except sleep loss’s kind of different, so. Yeah. I forgot where I was going with that.

Good job.

I really hope I don’t have insomnia because dad’s going to send me more yahoo articles on taking care of yourself and how sleep deprivation leads to depression in proven medical studies and yeah it’s not like I don’t appreciate it because I do. But he’s been living across the ocean for six years and apparently emailing stuff like this is going to make up for it.

I mean he’s working hard in Germany and he keeps saying “soon” but everyone else is just like, “okay.”

We can’t say anything else.

If he wants to tell me he cares that much he should talk to me. I don’t care how but definitely not through yahoo articles written by Mr. Healthy McHealthpants who currently lives in Colorado with his two hamsters or whatever. There’s nothing wrong with Colorado, it’s just the farthest away I can think of from this place.

I can’t wait to leave.

I have a couple more years of hell aka high school but after that I’m free. I’m going to go to an Ivy because that’s what life’s all about anyway, GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA GPA so it just felt really good writing that over and over again.

God my handwriting’s horrible. So I’ll go to an Ivy and all of this will be worth it, this stupid volunteering for walkathons I really don’t care about and chairing clubs that are only there to make you look smart. If I’m helping I want to help for real. And go swimming for once. With Nick and Kayla and Austin and yeah.

I just want to go to sleep. I stopped sleeping and @OMGfacts from Twitter said that sleep deprivation kills faster than starvation. I think that’s a lie cuz I’m not dead yet, and I haven’t really slept in a long, long time. I feel so old. I can’t wait to leave and make money so dad doesn’t have an excuse to be away and I can just forget about this. Although I think I am already. That’s another thing lack of sleep does to you. I read it in one of the articles.

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