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February 21, 2006

Dear Diary...

Dear Diary,

I know I am 26 now diary dearest, and it has indeed been a long time since I penned my childish woes in your pages… but for some reason I am having a pubescent flash back and well, now I’m far too old to be talking to friends about this (yes, better that I splash it on a blog site for the world to see), but what I want to know diary dearest is why, oh why is it that the boys I like never like me? Why is it that I am plagued by stalker-like local lads, but the boys I like never like me! Is this my romantic fate? Is this all I’m good for? Am I a one-hit wonder - I had a good one, I let him go and now I get no more? Is that the way it goes?

Well diary dearest, unlike my entries when I was 15, now I actually have busy busy and important things to do, no baffling intro-calculus home work for me, so I best be off to do some very grown-up things - if only to counteract this most juvenile of entries…

Love, me

Posted by catherine at 9:09 AM | Comments (0)

February 7, 2006

I think I'm a nice drunk, but my friends disagree

I’m only nice when I drunk. I heard someone once say to their boyfriend, “I love you more when you’re drunk”. I laughed and kept drinking my cup of tea and watching re-runs of some bad television series, but it stayed with me for some reason. Maybe because I’m only nice when I’m drunk.

The rest of the time, well, the rest of the time…Board games bore me, accents grate me, doors that won’t shut properly seem personal, mosquitoes make me swear, all-day strikes make me pace the house, kidnappings make me roll my eyes, I poke my tongue out at men with machine guns at the checkpoints, my reflection makes me bare my teeth to see how ugly I can make myself, guests make me seethe, books make me flick pages at double time, no one is right except me, the water is too cold, the electricity goes off on purpose because I am heating up 3 day old pasta in the microwave for dinner, the other kids wont play with me, the floor makes my feet red, boys make me stupid, friends seem distant and my writing is that of a pubescent teenager who’s just downed a bottle of wipeout after her boyfriend of two weeks, who she like, really totally loved, dumped her.

The rest of the time, I hate today and can’t wait until my drunk belly makes me sleep until tomorrow.

Posted by catherine at 5:43 PM | Comments (1)