Dear Diary

On Sunday night I attended the eviction party of a squat that I lived in for six months nearly five years ago (and by “lived in” I mean I shared a couch with an ecstasy addict whose wardrobe consisted solely of neon body suits). Countless numbers of people lived in that squat during its five year existence—many of whom are now my friends—so I was really excited at the prospect of going back, reminiscing, and celebrating the building’s final night.

I showed up to the party around midnight. When I got there everyone was already fucked out of their minds on mephadrone (which, by the way, I’ve decided is EVIL). They were literally so high their entire bodies were vibrating. Scary. Not to mention the house was a complete disaster. The floors were covered in discarded clothes and furniture, left behind by the squat’s final occupants. Couches were overturned. The walls were scattered with paint and messy marker drawings. So basically it looked pretty much identical to how it did when I lived there.

As I walked through the house I felt the strange sensation that everyone was staring at me. At first I assumed I must be paranoid, but after about ten minutes of being scrutinized by dilated pupils, I decided to ask my friend James what was up.

“Why is everyone acting so weird?” I asked him.

“Uh… I’ve got something I’ve to tell you,” he gurned. “Before you got here we were sort of tearing the house apart, looking for anything interesting that might have been left behind. Then someone turned over the couch, and underneath we found… umm… your old diary.”

“My diary?” I asked, surprised. I kept a journal growing up—from the ages of about ten to sixteen—but had no recollection of keeping a diary as recent as five years ago. “Are you sure it was mine?”

“Yeah, definitely,” he said with a look of pity on his face. “It was only about ten pages long, but we sort of, umm… read it aloud. I’m really sorry.”

When he said it I immediately went bright red. Is this real? I thought. Do things like this actually happen outside horrible teen movies starring Drew Barymore? I wanted to puke. I mean, my entire existence is pretty much based on trying to convince people that I’m really cool and aloof, not some mega-dweeb who writes down her innermost thoughts in a floral printed notepad, crying and listening to Elliott Smith. This was totally blowing my cover.

However, despite the fact that it’s immensely embarrassing, I’ve decided to post some scans from the dairy for your viewing pleasure. Basically, after some careful consideration, I realized that I admit shameful things about myself on the internet all the time. So I guess this isn’t that far off?

So (though I still have no memory of writing it), here are some of the sad/magical things I was apparently thinking about back when I was still a teenager. I’m sure all you hate-filled commenters will have a field day with this one.

Seriously, why?

Well, it’s nice to see that my male obsession has carried on into my twenties. Apparently I have a one track mind. Shame… I always thought of myself as being really deep.



17 Replies to “Dear Diary”

  1. girl, this shit is excellent. Someone should start a blog where they just post old shit from the their punk rock adolescent years. It would be so excellent.Actually, I'm sure someone has already done that.

  2. this happened to me. i moved out of a house which had recently started having shows in the basement– and they found my diary that contained my stupid life from 12-15 yrs old. they also read it out loud, at a show and then taped the pages to the walls. i have no idea how many of my friends now know that i wondered if i was a lesbian at 13 because i kissed my bff.

  3. Hahahahaha! Ugh if I had kept a diary in 2005 it would be pretty similar. Just replace "Frog" with "Club NME" because my attempts to get in Frog were mostly futile.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *