august 20, 2002.

Oh my God, what a rotten fucking night. My parents came over to drop off our new/old car (hereafter known as The White Man's Burden because it's white and I hate it). Then they took us out to dinner. My mother was 1) very hungry and 2) extremely sleep deprived, and what's worse is that she was suffering under the delusion that her hostile behaviour was perfectly normal and justified. The Boy was still puttering around the university when they arrived, and we spent an excruciating hour waiting for him while I unpacked dishes and my parents reminded me 20 or 30 times that the drive to Hogsboro High will be very long. I tried to declare a moratorium on that topic of conversation until I've actually driven it for a week, a month or a year; unfortunately they decided that the moratorium would go into effect tomorrow. By the time that the Boy sailed in the door, I was seething with unspoken rage. I started picking fights with him before I knew what I was doing.

At dinner I was subjected to the 1-hour barrage of Pixie Stix & Q questions, most of which boiled down to "why are you still going to see them?" They wanted to know what would happen if the situation in Chicago disintegrated and we were left without a place to stay. I personally consider this highly unlikely, but any solution I offered was rejected out of hand. I finally felt moved to ask what business it was of theirs to begin with. This shut my mother up until I went to the bathroom, at which point she started in on the Boy again. But he doesn't mind as much as I do.

As we left the car, my mother's parting shot rang out: "See you on Thursday. Make sure to write up a list of approved topics of conversation." As they drove off I snarled curses at the car. I've never called my mother those things in private, let alone in public. I suppose that I'm also suffering under the illusion that my behaviour is perfectly justified. I suppose that we all do, most of the time.

I was unpacking all of my paper diaries today, and as I flipped through them to makes sure that they were in the right order, random passages leapt out at me.

I think my Narrative class will be fun, 'coz I'm already friends with the guy next to me. We met in the Odds pit, 'tho we didn't introduce ourselves. He's funny in a laid back sort of way, he knows the words to 'Downtown' (we quoted 'em) and he's from St. Mike's, so he's pretty smart.

- first impressions of ian, september 11, 1995.

Pauline threatened to give me an oral warning if I didn't go out drinking with her tonight. I love my don.

- december 11, 1995.

What they say about grocery shopping and being hungry also applies to buying a bed whilst incredibly sexually frustrated.

- august 13, 1998.

All this and reams of bad poetry. The bidding war begins at my death.

It was actually very instructive to read a few bits here and there. People used to ask me what the difference was between keeping a public diary and a private one, and I used to talk about leaving sex out and not insulting friends in the heat of anger. But I noticed something very important today - when I read entries 11, 8, even 3 years old, I have no frigging idea what I was on about most of the time. Personal code may just be the most unbreakable form of communication we've ever invented as a species. Writing in a public forum forces me to tell complete stories, not just snippets.