25 years: a retrospective (part 8)

I have been woefully neglectful of my blog in recent months, for a myriad of reasons. I vow to thee that this will change after the new year! Meanwhile, since 2008—my 25th anniversary journaling year—is closing down, I want to post a few final journal excerpts for my retrospective. More substantive and non-recycled crap will follow in upcoming weeks!

9 May 1983

Me and Barb cleaned my Barbie house. On Sat. mommy got me a sticker book and Krissy a wooden horse. She was gonna get me a wooden panda or fish but it was mostly farm animals.

8 October 1983

Usually I don’t write on weekends. But I got mad at mom again! I did her wash and she says she won’t give me anything for it! I can kill her. Tomorrow we go to the mountains.

22 January 1986

The kids were so mean! Hardly anyone talked to me except to make fun of me except to call me gross or to blow my nose. I almost cried at lunch! It got a little better when I played hopscotch with Barb and (ugg!) Lori. I’m afraid to go back.

21 June 1986

A lot happened today. First, D. called and I asked her to a movie but she couldn’t go. So we played Barbies but then B. called. We played with her and tricked her. D. said that they had to leave at two because I’m sick. They left, then D. returned without B.! We tried to pick up my Barbie pool filled with water, and it dumped all over us! D. and I went to A&M pizza place. I got a large coke and when I tried to pay for it the guy said, “Who cares, take it for free”! Maybe he knew I was sick! My temperature is 101.

5 November 1987

All night I’ve been trying to write poetry about how I feel about growing up. It’s hard, so that’s why I’m writing this. This has got to be the hardest time in my life. I never felt this way before. When I was littler, I thought my main teen troubles would be boys, friends, sex, drugs, and alcohol. Those are true, but they’re not all. I have the weirdest feelings cursing through my soul. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. I feel angry at the world, yet sometimes for no particular reason, I feel happy. Happy at what? Who knows? And the time I don’t even know why I’m mad at people. I just am. I feel sad too. Sad at not being pretty, or popular, and not having a boyfriend. I feel sadness for myself and everything under the sun. I still love M.G. deeply, yet I know he’ll never love me. Why? I wonder. Why is life so cruel and unfair? What will the future hold in store for me? I’m scared, diary. Scared, frightened, confused, angry, and sad. I’m slipping over the edge sometimes. Sometimes I slip into one of my carefree, problemless fantasies and I can’t pull myself out. How should I? How can I help myself?

5 April 1988

Today in the mail I got a card and $5 from Moe. She sent it for my receiving that blue ribbon. In it she said that I would someday be famous and that the world needed poets like me, or something like that. El wowo!

27 August 1988

This sounds odd, but I feel like…I don’t know. How do I feel? I guess really depressed. I haven’t talked to any friends today and I’m down pretty much. Once again I feel like there’s this wall in front of me. It’s blocking me off. I wish I could get to the other side. Maybe school this year will allow me to do that, but I doubt it. I’m in this mood that just makes me want to die. Yes, that’s it—be able to stop; to end. I don’t want to kill myself, though. Just die. I hope it stops.

30 June 1989

In some respects, I’m living life on a fragile wire, teetering up upon darkness and light; madness and reality; hope and despair. I have been bitten by a shadow, and therefore lie on the threshold of the point of no return. The abyss is gaping, but so help me God, I will fight him the whole way through, have I enough strength left. “When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you,” they say. What is happening?

30 July 1989

Mom is driving me crazy with her “you’re a lazy-ass” routine. Plus, to make matters worse, her and Dad are sticking me in the middle of their tug-of-war. Forget it. I won’t have any part of it. I think I’m going paranoid. Sometimes I’m afraid to go outside; I don’t watch current TV or listen to current music, and I think I’m building up a wall which is only hurting me more. Oh! Oh! What happens now?

10 August 1989

I’m really torn up over this war between Mom and Dad; mixed up, I mean. Dad doesn’t sleep here anymore. Okay, here goes the game strategy: Mom raves on about how horrible Dad is, and Dad complains how crazy Mom is. In other words, they’re trying to turn me against eachother. Also, Dad is trying to bribe me by talking about what a wonderful room I’ll have in his new house, and how I can call on him anytime, anywhere, and oh, let’s have a little chat, because you’re like me. He also pointed out to me yesterday how Mom has 5 individual pictures of Kris in her wallet, and only 1 of me. Now, had I noticed it on my own, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, as Kris had more pictures done than me (proms, senior photos). But now that he mentions it, couldn’t she just put 2 or 3 pictures in, not 5? I mean, come on. I know Mom likes Kris better than me, I’d have to be dense not to, but this certainly doesn’t diminish the glare. I’m not saying I’m angry at Dad for all this, in fact I’m rather for him, but not with him. I’m tired of balancing on the rope between the two of them. Kris doesn’t have to face it, so why should I?

10 September 1989

Really, I have got to tell you this, because I’m not sure what to do. Mom wants me to see a psychiatrist. I don’t have to tell you why, as you know me, and know why she suggested it. But I will say that Friday, I was really depressed because I had nothing to do, was having cramps, and all the factors that make me depressed. Mom really had me upset, though, with her dropping hints that I don’t get out, I’m not socialite of the year, and of course, I’m not Kris. So I went out for a walk while she was shopping, and I only came back in once she was home for awhile. She was staring at me like I’m some sort of madness, and was pressing because I was moping around kind of dejectedly. When I was in bed, listening to Evita through my earphones, she asked me what was wrong, and if I had a problem, could I come to her. I said I don’t know. She said if I didn’t have anyone I felt I could talk to, maybe we could get me professional help, like Heather. It didn’t offend me, but once alone in the dark, I started to cry. Oh dear God, what is happening? Am I really that bad off? I have you to talk with, and even Michelle and Antoinette if I was far enough along the edge, but what about my state? I was glad that maybe Mom was finally understanding, except Saturday she started on me again. I don’t need this pressure! She suggested the P. again in the car on our way to Louise’s for dinner. If I was to write the second stage of my memoirs, I’d call it “Falling Apart.” Not just me, my friends. Antoinette is turning badly, Heather…everybody. Why is it there are hardly any sane teenagers? Maybe I should see one. I feel as if I can only bare my soul to you, but I’m afraid of breaking. What should I do? I’m noticing some of the signs in myself…would I kill myself? Could I kill myself? Is it possible for me to take my own life?

14 September 1989

I am so sorry to moan and pray and weep to you all the time, but if I don’t talk to someone, I just know I’ll snap. Please forgive me, but I just have so much on my mind. I’m so depressed. Sometimes I just give up all faith in living. There’s nothing for me! I’m so ugly and unpopular and I don’t have any friends to confide to anymore. Everybody’s got their life to live but me. I want to do it! I want to kill myself! I want it to be over with. I’m a failure in everything. Mom and Dad fight all the time, and obviously no one really likes me. I’m so ashamed of myself because I’m so weak. Oh, make it go away! Make the pain stop, God…why do you punish me so bad? I just wish I could crawl in a corner and die.

There. I got it out. I’m crying while I write this, because I’m getting suffocated in this darkness. Not even Heaven will weep for me now.

28 September 1989

For some reason today I stared at my hand; it was dirty and it represented reality. What is real? What does it take to be able to survive? I think I’m kind of in a bind right now. No, not really that word…kind of…in a state of serenity. Does that sound strange to you? It does to me. Nothing really affects me anymore. A great, comforting numbness has me swimming, drowning, in myself. I shall be mediocre happy if I can feel no pain.

30 September 1989

In answer to my wonderings a few days ago, I think I figured I’m (as in Pink Floyd’s The Wall) in front of the wall. I’m searching for the door, though. Isn’t that strange? I want to be behind it, to hide in insanity, and never be forced to face life again. Every drop of anguish for me is “Just another brick in the wall.”

12 October 1989

I apologize for not having written, but there seems to be something wrong with me. I told you before, I feel numb. And that’s just it. I pass from day to day like a zombie; nothing makes an impression on me. I almost feel as if life is a neverending insanity, with “breaks of reality” in it. I can’t write to you. I am so sorry, but I just can’t. Haven’t you noticed? I haven’t written any poetry, except one. Nothing satisfies me, and everything I use as an outlet no longer works. That means I’m holding it inside, and I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. If I continue, I may go mad.

31 October 1989

’Fess up, someone. What is happening here? Why does everything good in my life get destroyed? It’s so ironic I could almost laugh, if the idea would sink into my rotten brain.

… I can’t talk to you anymore (tonight). Telly looks good. Gotta go burn myself.

6 November 1989

Tonight I had a long talk with my mother about religion, and the web that surrounds it. I don’t know. I guess I never gave much thought to being Catholic and how it differs from her being Protestant. Michelle is too. They seem (the religions) so alike; I wonder how we group ourselves so differently when it’s all the same God we believe in. Catholics are very ethnocentric. They think they’re the best, and every member of the church must think like the Pope tells them to. Everyone’s like “Horror” when it comes to inter-religious marriages. “If you should decide to marry someone outside of your own religion…” as a warning. So what? What does it matter if my husband’s Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, or an atheist? I mean, what difference does it make? I think we’re all delicate and fragile objects in a very harsh, confused world. Look at the war in Northern Ireland. So full of hate for something so senseless.

Forgive me if I fail to captivate you. I am so freezingly cold, I feel as if I’ve no circulation left. I’m also under alot of stress from quarterlies being all week long. Such, in fact, I’ve been plagued by migraines and constant numbness in my left hand. We all know what that feels like. Strange, but I don’t feel the pressure. It must be building up slowly inside of me, like everything else.

This is also spirit week. I wore my British flag hat today. I don’t know if I’m going to clash tomorrow or not. Michelle and I stayed after school to help decorate, then went for pizza and walked around until she had to go to band. She told me Neil (Neil! Neil!) was having a New Year’s party. God, I’d give my life to go. There’s probably drinking (he said there’d be a “bit of whisky”) but I wouldn’t care. I’d smuggle apple juice in, more than likely. Oh well. Life is a cruel piece of shit.

8 November 1989

I feel like I’ve got to talk to you, or else I’ll end up killing myself sometime. Can I tell you something? I’m tired of working my ass for little pay. I’m tired of Mom and Dad making promises to me they have no intention of keeping, then getting cold when I remind them. I’m tired of the bitches at work who treat me so badly. I’m tired of my friends who either never call, or think they’re superior to me. I’m tired of being locked behind a mask of steel. I’m tired of everyone, everything, and want to gouge them away. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t believe in the colours of life anymore, except that I’ve come to learn to accept the grey, and live in it. I’m just so weary and hallow; someone give me a cliff, and I’ll throw myself off it. Give me a razor, and I’ll wield its silver anger to my skin. Give me hope and I’ll show you despair. Help me to survive and you shall become my God.

“What happens to a dream deferred?”

4 December 1989

… popular people are a complete mystery to me. Half of them aren’t even pretty. But they’re all so busy trying to impress other people who are trying to impress them. It’s not the treads who always get pregnant, do drugs, drink, and be reckless. It’s the pops. And it’s usually them who get away with it because they’re jewels in every person’s eyes.

I guess I’m kind of glad I’m a loner. I don’t care if I ever fall in love, or live happily ever after. I’ve got my dreams, and ambitions, and hopes, and I know I’ll find peace of mind in England someday. Total serenity. It won’t matter what they think.

12 December 1989

I’m also pretty tired of conforming to everybody’s rules. If I venture timidly into the world of individuality, I get so many smacks I have to return! It’s bad enough that if you’re not one of the “beautiful people” in high school you can never fit in, but you try to get respect and admiration, and it doesn’t work. Jesus, is there really such a thing as salvation any more?

19 December 1989

Is there something wrong with me? Why do I feel so numb inside? Everything is so cold and achy. I blunder through every day…I wouldn’t even need vacation, I’m so robotic to my actions. Everybody has someplace to go, something to do. They all have a purpose, and me…none. Time also to doubt my morality. Why am I here, and what is my purpose? I can’t stand anyone anymore, and I’m so restless. Prowling. Looking for something that I can’t find. Do you think I’ll ever find it?

20 June 1990

Italian words rampage through my mind, my numb skull (literally). I don’t know what they mean, but I suppose Michelle Foster does. The whole world has gone crazy around me. Mum and Kris are downstairs, listening to stress-reduce records. I can hear the twisted flute music up here. On the kitchen table lie family therapy pamphlets from Philhaven for us. Kris is in counseling.

I keep hearing things. Wild birds in the back yard, footsteps on the stairs. I’m sure none of it is really there.

The night is nice outside. Oh thank God. The wild birds are really a flowing stream on the record downstairs. I hear the sound and want to laugh crazily. As for the night…no, I was just downstairs. They lie in the dark floor like corpses. I wonder if they’re dead. Outside it’s quiet. I can almost hear monsters thrashing about, and it scares me. I listen to a million stars in the cloudy stillness.

13 September 1990

I do so many strange things now. I was just searching over the entire house for my photo album, when it was actually at my feet at my starting point. My room is a mess. I never let it get this horribly messy before; now notes, books, magazines, and tapes clutter every space. Mum wants me to clean it. I don’t think I can.

Sometimes when I’m at school I get totally paranoid. Everybody I pass in the halls is whispering about me, and they laugh…I’ll get afraid to walk from class to class, and I feel so overwhelmed by the crowds around me. Plus I’ve been sick this week, which hasn’t helped matters any. I’m going through one of my memory lapses again, where nothing sticks and thoughts all die in my brain.

10 November 1990

Oh, what breaks. Life is hell. I think it might snow tonight, but I’m not sure. My hand hurts. Barb dug her goddamned claws into it and now it’s all red and torn. Now I remember why I was always angry at her.

I think I may just die tonight. I think the world may end tonight. I don’t know. It’s so dark and stormy and tumultuous. “I don’t want to die screaming like this.” Life drags on, and so. Oh Jesus. I read a letter I wrote to A. and I cried because in it I was insane and I don’t think I’m much better now. Everybody was tearing eachother apart and maybe it hurt me more than I knew. I guess you’re the only one I can talk to. I can’t call Antoinette, but I know she’s there for me, and you guys are my two best friends. I told A. not even the goddess can conquer the tigers or the Shadowman. I don’t think the goddess exists… In my “darkest hour” I only just realize this. Oh god. I don’t think I can handle this anymore, of being drowned in this. It’s all coming to a close now, this final cycle. I’m tired of being the loser in this war. It’s never going to be Christmas again. I can’t believe I came so close to doing it…on a hollow December night beneath the relinquishing glares of the light and the tiles. That time is coming up again—a year. A year and the THUNDER NEVER CEASED. I have to go scream now … so goodbye.

6 December 1990

Is this reality?

Sitting here in my desk chair, my legs spread across my bed as I sit beneath my hair dryer, I do nothing but watch my moussed-gelled-sprayed hair grow hard, and listen to The Cure. My dreams are killed beneath the dryer’s winds. I don’t know if I’m anything anymore. I don’t know if I’m alive or dead; if I’m some sick joke in a savage god’s world. There’s no one who could tell me, either. Is this all that my life is?

28 December 1990

Last night it snowed. We got at least 10 inches. I was going to go sledding with Missy today, but Mum forced me and Kris to shovel the whole bloody universe and now the sight of snow makes me ill. My finger’s bleeding.

25 February 1991

I’m so scared. It’s all because lately all I’ve been able to think about is killing myself. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s true. I haven’t seriously been this way in such a long time, and even then it was partially because of the medication I’m on. Now it’s for real, and that’s what terrifies me. Missy and I are constantly fighting, schoolwork is like a heavy period which won’t go away, and nobody can love me. I also found out today that Monica H. thinks we were spreading rumors about her at Heather’s party on Saturday, and she’ll approach me about it tomorrow in Latin. What will I say to her?! What if I don’t get good partners to work with me on my chem. term paper? What if I can’t—actually can’t—go on anymore?

Living all this is just a waste of time. I stand back and look at my existence…and I’m literally appalled by it all. I’m ready to kill everybody. If I had a hole to crawl in or a mountain to migrate to I would. I want to be all alone…

But I’m scared I will kill myself. Since I don’t have a garage, it would have to be overdose or slitting my wrists. On Sunday I thought that if this week gets too bad, I’ll do it. Just like that. I actually made a deal with myself to do it! What would happen if I would? Would people be sad? Would they shake their heads and move on? I wonder if it would even be brought up in school. My chair would be empty in every class…empty, and cold. Who would miss me? What would become of my “stuff”? What would they think when they cleaned out my room and tried to look at it all through my eyes? It’s really strange, because I don’t know how much I want to truly die. If someone told me the car I’m driving in would crash in 5 minutes, or the world will explode tomorrow, or within a year I’d be dead of terminal cancer, I’d be so scared that I’d do anything to live, but now it’s totally different, because it’s me making the decision. What kind of decision will it be? Guess I can’t regret it when I’m burning in hell. If only I knew what to do!

13 July 1991

I’m so revolting. Nothing ever goes right. …no one gives a shit about me, or the person underneath. What about me? Who am I? I’m never ever going to become a person and no one cares at all.

16 November 1991

Tonight was Terry’s schizophrenic tea party, which was really fun. Before that, I went to the plaza for a bit with Heather, Miss, Shawn, and Michelle F. We got totally lost looking for Terry’s house (even though I’ve been there before) and eventually we just parked in what we assumed to be the general area and stood in the street yelling “TERRY!!” Shawn ran up to a passer-by to ask which house was his, and it turned out to be Yvonne, who was walking her dog. This whole thing was held in his attic. He had paintings hanging on the wall rafters, candles burning, incense, the Doors on his CD, and lots of finger-type foods and different teas. We ate, danced, played with the bizarre things in his attic, and eventually left when Michelle G and Laura wanted to be alone to do a ouija for a few hours (they actually got responses).Heather and Mich F went to drive by Justin’s house, and Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I poked around his incredible basement. They other two returned and we went back down to look some more. Heather and I uncovered old albums of The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon and sang a loud chorus of “Brain Damage” to everyone, even though they didn’t want to listen. We all went out to Blockbuster (I had to stay in the car because I had no shoes on) and we rented a low-budget sex comedy, The Sex o’Clock News, which lasted till about 10:30, when we left.

20 March 1992

I feel like my life has crashed around me with a thunderous force, dream-walls and all. I’m left wandering dazedly through the debris and dust…unable to see, unable to breathe, because I’m choking. Maybe I’m even dying. I don’t know. I think I’m in shock, and that’s why I’m unable to think about anything, or make a decision on whether or not I should live or die. I haven’t taken my Inderol forever, but I’m still alive, possibly even alive with tolerance to missing my pills. It used to be that after missing 3-4 pills I would start shaking and going black, but now I’m up to over 6-7 (maybe more) and the shaking is only just starting now. My fingers are a little numb, but that’s it.

I can’t love D. anymore. How can I love him if I don’t know him? How can I feel whole anymore, if there’s no one to love? I’m so scared I’m going to force myself to continue liking him, even though I don’t want to. … I can’t control this unbearable panic anymore! There’s so much going on, so much pushing in on me from all sides, so much making my brain explode! Help me … I’m going to explode! I’m petrified, terrified, sick with fear. My wounds are bleeding and screaming; they’re going to scar but they’ll never heal. I’ve got to get out of this life—

Do you love?

Yes, and that’s why I’m going to murder life before it murders me.

15 May 1992

On Sunday I chopped up my wrist again, after I wrote to you. Mom thinks I’m nuts. I think I’m coping.

18 May 1992

Life is an ocean, and high school is a boat in which we are all safe and protected, until it comes time to get thrown overboard. We will all go our separate ways, and some will sink while others swim. Friendship is supposed to be the anchor which keeps you stead and afloat in the twisting ocean waves until it’s time to set yourself free. It scares me that I honestly feel as though I have no anchor; thus, I’m getting unbearably sea-sick because my end of the boat is very unsteady. I’m so close to getting my chance to swim, but I just want a little calm before I have to do that. My anchor is rusty and weak, and it’s never fully lodged into the sand of the ocean floor. Maybe I don’t have one at all.

… The reason my self-worth is so low is because everybody around me is treating me like a leper, as if they absolutely can’t stand to be around me. That, along with me being a human guy repellant, equals virtually no confidence. … Hell, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be the first American undesirable to win the title “Most Likely to Get Deported Just Because We Don’t Like Her.” It’s a terrible feeling to know you’re despised by everyone, who still pretend that they can stand you. If I’m just over-reacting or being paranoid, then I wish someone would attempt to lay my fears to rest, but no one has. So here I am.

27 May 1992

Well, here it is.

After four long years of sweat and toil, embarrassments, hilarious moments, somber moments, euphoria, depression, work, and times, times, times…it draws to a close.

I know after a few years I will barely remember high school. It will be nothing more than a mere vague, faceless dream haunting my memory. Even so, it saddens me just a bit to finally release the familiar essence of it all. I spent four years of my life in this shitty little school—nothing more than a tiny parasite on the distorted, rotting face of Lebanon. L.H.S. has been my cradle, though. My protection. Today I cleaned out my locker, and felt strange pangs of loss. That narrow strip of yellow metal has been mine for four years. And now, I’m cleaning it for the last time. Strange. Endings are so very strange. So, I left a little epitaph in pen on the inside of the bottom door. I’m sure the janitors will wipe it off this summer, but even so…oh, I don’t know. The class of ’92 will be forgotten in a week. Soon, the class of ’93 will be the focus of everyone’s attention. Time moves on, and eventually we’ll all change and grow and forget one another in its haze.

10 November 1992

On Saturday things just overwhelmed me, and the final straw was when my pump of styling spritz would not work. I began hitting it and bawling. I sat in Kristen’s room half-naked, weeping and sobbing…but quietly, you must understand, although nobody was around to hear me. Even when I have a breakdown, I have to be quiet about it, for chrissake. Why must everything be so quiet and modulated and under wraps for me all the time?

17 November 1992

At around 10 pm, Missy, Jenn, and Shawn arrived … but they didn’t want to go to a party anymore. We kidded around about driving to Salem instead, but then Shawn suggested that we drive to New York City as an alternative. We all just looked at him, and he said “I’m serious!” So, at 11 pm on a Friday night, we hit the road for N.Y.C., armed with blankets from Missy’s room, and plenty of tapes (Pearl Jam, Billy Joel, Tori Amos, and R.E.M., if I remember correctly). We took a really weird route through New York State though, so it took us awhile to get there. Everyone thought that I mis-directed us down this country road, but it turned out that I was perfectly right, and soon we found ourselves lost and totally disoriented in the Bronx at 3 am. We were convinced that we were going to get carjacked, since there has been a large amount of those happening lately in New York and New Jersey. We had to ask two scary-looking Puerto Rican female cops for directions to Manhattan, because we couldn’t seem to find it. At one particular point, when we were in a semi-traffic jam in some tunnel, two massive trucks from Lebanon, PA, drove by. That was odd.

Well, we eventually found Manhattan, and we were just kind of driving around, looking for a place to spend the night. When we had first arrived, we were driving along the river, and we all got into a fight over which side Manhattan was on: Shawn and I claimed that it was our side, while Missy and Jenn insisted that it was on the other side, even though there were only like 2 buildings over there. Everytime we saw a building that was even remotely tall, one of us would exclaim, “Look! It’s the Empire State Building!”, even though most of them were about 5 stories tall. We were also listening to some bizarre reggae station on the radio, and we were all jamming in the car to it, even though reggae isn’t your typical jamming music!

Every parking garage we tried to park in insisted that we leave the car and they park it, which really put a damper on our plans to sleep in the parking garage. One of the attendants we encountered spoke only Spanish, and tried to sputter out “Where is a cheap hotel,” which came out as “Where is hotel no money.” Heller and I just laughed and said “Don’t look at us—we only took French!” The Spaniard managed to direct us to a Days Inn, but it was $124 for the two hours’ sleep we’d be getting, so we just said “Screw it” and left. We ended up spending the night sleeping in the car, at the corner of 56th Street and 8th Avenue, in Greenwich Village. People gave us strange looks everytime they walked by. I realize now just how extremely dangerous that was—after all, four teenagers from out-of-state sleeping in their car on a sort of seedy New York Street is not too safe. Luckily Jenn stayed up all night (well, the 2-3 hours that we were parked), and kept guard over us. It was funny because Shawn talked in his sleep (he sat up, looked at Missy, and said “Mary Jo, have I got a quiz for you, girlfriend!”, then went back to sleep) and Missy said that she accidentally touched my foot which was kicked over her seat, and I screamed “OW! That’s my FOOT!” in my sleep.

Before we had settled down for the night, we went to a walk-up window at a McDonald’s which was across the street from our car, and that was truly the highlight of our little trip. They had these weird bullet-proof sliding doors that prevented any of us from making contact with the chick who served us, which was probably a good thing, because she was the freakiest creature I ever saw in my life. She was tall and black with dreadlocked hair, coke bottle glasses, and a very deep, throaty voice. Almost everything we tried to order got a “We don’t have that!” bellowed in response, and every time one of us would order a Coke, she’d say “Which kind—Sprite or orange?” and we’d look at eachother, baffled. She scared the shit out of us. The people around us weren’t too cool, either. There was a guy who kept shrieking in German, a bum who begged us for change and mumbled to himself, and a guy who plopped down next to the huge Ronald McDonald outside and slapped its face.

22 November 1992

I spent the night (until 1 am) in Kris and Emily’s room, watching TV, eating Zorba’s fries, and talking-talking-talking. I was woken up at 2 am (actually, I wasn’t; MBS had already woken us up with another crisis of hers) when Missy and Suki called me from the callbox downstairs. They wanted me to go to a party with them. I resisted, then finally relented. The Late Night we were aiming for was cancelled, so I ended up walking around Scranton with them at 2:30 in the morning, wearing my pajamas and retainer, with brown Clearasil streaks on my face and my hair sticking out everywhere. I got in at 3 am.

27 December 1992

Saturday night was my little x-mas party. Heather and I went out beforehand and bought mis-matched tube socks for everyone. Heather, Missy, Seabold, Jenn, Michelle, Michelle, and Terry all came over. We tried to watch horror movies, but the VCR wouldn’t work. We listened to Bert and Ernie’s Sing-Along, ate tons of pizza and breadsticks, gave Foster a gift-wrapped dead bird in a box, and burned 2 two pizza boxes out in the backyard. We tried to burn the clothesline and everything else we could get our little hands on, too, with the aid of hairspray, nail-polish remover, alcohol, matches, and a candle-starter thing.