Scenes from a Teenage Diary

As promised in this post.

One small confession: I thought this journal was from eighth grade when I found it in my basement and peeked at the first entry. (This is me in eighth grade: resplendent in white satin with matching pumps, my hair freshly released from my mother’s Hot Sticks. I know the outfit looks like a matched set, but I borrowed the jacket from Prince and the skirt from Rue McClanahan.)

However, upon further reading, I realized I was in high school already when this journal was written. I’m probably fifteen, sixteen. It’s still pretty painful. Names have been changed. Am typing it out instead of scanning the pages because my handwriting is like a serial killer’s and can only be understood by me and certain forensic analysts.

She was quiet. Mostly kept to herself.

Okay, so here I am perfecting my Angela Chase impression as I brood over my personal Jordan Catalano, who sadly never held hands with me in the hallway or told me my cuticles looked like little moons:

Ben let me read his poems in homeroom. They were SO good—I mean, just the fact that they were coming from HIM. Funny, jaded Ben, writing about his mommy’s lap. His second poem ended with the coolest phrase. I think it was, “Innocence fell today, again.” He is so distracting, with his hair and his eyes. I just keep thinking about that sponge I keep in my memento box, just because he gave it to me, and I sometimes wonder if he kept the headband I once left in his car. 

I am just as puzzled as you are about the sponge. And to this day, I still hate when men willfully distract me with all their hair- and eye-having. Later, I add:

We gave this guy Eric a ride home from the Vault. “What’s Going On” came on in the car. I like Marvin Gaye. Kind of a tragic figure. Eric looks a little like Ben. I almost cried when he turned his head to one side.

*smacks former self*

My sexual awakening continued a few pages later:

Watched another video in Religion class. It was on Sexuality, this time. The funniest part was when this fat old guy said to his wife, “oh, sometimes when I look at you I get so sexy and horny,” and the wife said “Holy cow!” I also liked the part where the husband asks if she could be on top sometimes.

I’m kind of shocked they showed us a video like that, but I’m sure the rest of it was fairly tame, since I go on to describe the video hosts as “so chaste they’d make Mother Teresa want to spit.” I probably said a couple Hail Marys after writing that, just in case.

I don’t even know what to say about this next part, except that I have zero memory of being a kleptomaniac or an asshole who cheerfully deceives gullible lunch companions:

Lunch was a laugh riot infested with assorted “spew” and “hurl” references. Greg was incredulous when I told them about my strange hobby, stealing salt and pepper shakers from fast-food restaurants. “Do you really? NO. Do you really?” he kept asking, even after I produced a Hardee’s salt shaker as proof. We are REALLY getting on him for asking stupid questions. He was being a pain, so when he asked me for a news item to use for his Spanish homework, I gave him a story about a drugged-out man who drove his car into a traffic light while hallucinating. Later I told Amy, “I hope he doesn’t use that. I made it up.”

I seriously don’t remember the salt shaker thing. My actual hobby appeared to be describing various boys in odd, half-articulate ways:

We met up with John Russell, who had stayed at the Vault until closing time. He told us wild mosh pit stories and said the second band was awesome. There have been some weird stories circulating about him, but I like John. He’s like the rude boy who isn’t completely rude, or the convict who loves his mama. . .I dunno. He seems like a very human person. I went home and opened a box of butter cookies and started to read “The Bell Jar.”

Now that I read this, I do vaguely remember socializing with some very human people in high school. We would hang out at Bob’s Big Boy, sipping very wet coffee and breathing very oxygeny air. And then things like this would happen:

At Bob’s, Sarah was on the phone with Michelle. She took time out to warn me that Jim was getting ready to ask me to “go steady,” and he was asking them what I would say, etc. I am so confused. This is NO JOKE. I really have to think about what I’m going to say. I’m not interested in dating. Everyone gives me the creeps. Luckily, he didn’t ask he tonight, because we all left abruptly when there was talk of skinheads milling around outside. Chris P. warned me twice to be careful, grabbing my hand like some kind of worried farmer.

I’m trying to decide if I’d rather be called a “human person” or a “worried farmer.” I’m leaning toward the farmer. I also suspect I wasn’t getting enough sleep that year:

I felt about as alert as a pile of sawdust at school. Finished that damn poem, though. Went home and listened to Camper Van Beethoven, worked on some Christmas cards, and watched Tony propose to Angela on Who’s the Boss?

As one does. I also added an “Awww” after the Who’s the Boss? thing. I can’t tell if this was written before or after irony.

There’s a bunch more, but trust me, you don’t want to read about my girl crush on Anjelica Huston or all the petty drama surrounding auditions for the Freshman-Sophomore Play Competition. Now that I’ve finished embarrassing myself (for today), I’m going to go fire up the DeLorean and give my fifteen-year-old self a stern talking-to. And maybe write a letter to Dear Teen Me.