'cause someone has to be the next judy blume

monday, jan. 14, 1985

dear diary,
you may have noticed that i skipped over a few days. well, get used to it because i feel that i may be doing that from time to time. heck, i may even do it for a whole month (!). i mean, if nothing exciting happens over that period of days, why should i just bore you telling you how bored i am?! that just doesn't make sense to me!

you have probably noticed that there has been no mention of tommy lately. well, here's an update. i still like him considerably! it's crazy. i started out when he came up here again this past summer not to be in love with him, but the more i saw him, the more i thought about him and, obviously, that led to unleashing all the good feelings i have for him. it's really quite bizarre. i'm sure i'll love him one way or the other until i die and that's a long way off!

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ah...teen angst. can you smell it? that, my friends, is some shitty writing, courtesy of my angst-ridden, hormonally-fueled teenage heart. if i like you, trust i'm not going to like you a smidge. no half-ways with me. uh-uh, baby. with me, it's all about digging you considerably! until i die so very much later in the future!

god. being 14 totally kicked ass! i miss it nearly as much as i miss my fantasy husband, one mr. simon le bon, to whom i was most faithful except when his bass playing cohort, john taylor, smiled at me from under that floppy hair and fedora. my love and respect for the man who not only gave duran duran its voice, but was singing to me every time he performed "hungry like the wolf" is detailed in many a letter. in one, i confessed honeymooning in rio would be "scrumptious" (groan quietly amongst yourself, for i've done enough groaning for us all upon rediscovering that one).

but of course, what i miss most of all about teenage life is the passionate "he's just gotta love me or i know (know!!!) i'm bound to perish, dear diary!" (yes, a snippet from an actual entry) means by which i lived my life during a time when everything was a drama. every time my mother spoke to me it was with scorn meant purely to make life a living hell. every cross-eyed glance from my best friend from across study hall must have meant she hated me (apparently we didn't like each other as considerably as we thought, seeing as how i've lived so long now without her in my life).

and i wrote all about it in my diaries. i was compelled to retrieve these books (or 'journals' as i called them as i got older and had actual sex to write about in them. today, of course, they're called 'blogs') when i came across a book at the store this week called "mortified" by dave nadelberg. subtitled "real people. real life. real pathetic.", i knew immediately this book would speak to me on a classical level, much like some would rank "to kill a mockingbird" or "fahrenheit 451". the book, the offspring of a successful live show on the west coast, features childhood journal entries, confessions and stories, each introduced by the now-adult authors. letters to unrequited loves. notes passed in the hallways (i have a shoebox full of these, btw. "do you wanna go with me? check 'yes' or 'no' and get this back to me by third period." "geez! isn't mrs. swan a total butt?! can you believe all the stuff she's making us read?! does she think we're robots?! doesn't she know we have other classes?!"), and diary accounts. any of us who ever put a pen to paper as a teen surely believed we were destined to be the next great writer, and "mortified" is a testament to how pathetic that idea really is. a delightful first course of whine and cheese, and so up my alley.

i, of course, planned to step in whenever judy blume prepared to retire. i felt fully qualified to help young girls through life's greatest dramas, be it their first period or their first sexual encounter. nevermind that i'd only experienced one of those "firsts" when i was ready to offer up help. i spent many summer days under the shade tree in my front yard crafting tales of romance, redemption and redeeming rewards all in her spirit.

that anyone actually paid me to write for my livelihood shocks me when i go through some of the things i penned, whether it was something only for my eyes or the lame attempts at poetry i struggled over my senior year in college so i could graduate (with a creative writing minor, mind you). notice i'm sparing you the poetry? if you ask nice, maybe i'll unleash a bit of the prose my professor never failed to label as "trite" in his critiques (you were so hoping i'd unleash something else, weren't you? been missing that tease, haven't you?).

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friday, jan. 18, 1985

dear diary,

i saw tommy today. i was walking from my locker past his and he turned and smiled at my pitiful self (ha!) and i went up to him and we talked for a few minutes. i was so happy!! it almost felt like i was floating on cloud nine (sidenote: i actually didn't go to high school in the 50s). he has a way of doing that to me. just being near him and talking to him makes me feel special. why can't he realize the effect he has on me and do something about it?!"

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epilogue: oh yes, my friends, tommy did something about it later that year. boobs and tube tops have a special kind of magic. i wrote about it in detail in later diary entries, in perfect judy blume "forever" prose.

are you there, judy? it's me, and i'm still waiting...