August 14, 1999.

I've been flipping through old diaries as I move them across the room from their old drawer home to their new drawer home. I don't recall living as boring a life as these records insist. I must conclude that my storytelling skills were...how should I put it...ass.

One of my favorites from the late eighties is just a list of people "I love." There's about 7 boy names and one girl, Loralee. It amuses me that after her name is the careful notation, "but not in the gay way." I have no idea what I thought 'the gay way' was at that age; I only knew that I was a good little hetero girl, just like my parents. It's actually embarrassing how many entries at that age are solely confined to "I have a crush on..." "I was at the dance & I pretended Jeremy was there," or "I thought about him every day." And I thought that my 9-year-olds at camp were simmering stewpots of (hetero) sex. Sheesh.

You know, sometimes I get a moment of vertigo where I pull back from everything I assume to be true and everything seems strange and horribly threatening. At such moments, the idea that I should encourage someone to stick a body part into my body is repugnant beyond belief. And then evolutionary biology kicks in & the vertigo goes away.

But what strange things our DNA has us do in the name of perpetuation!

Well, I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. Yesterday I didn't write because I couldn't think of anything new to say. I seem to have babbled myself into some semblence of an entry tonight, so let's leave it at that, shall we?