Friday, September 24, 2010

Everything I Think, In Chronological Order

When I was in 8th grade, and later, when I was a sophomore in high school, I kept these journals. They were Mead brand, one-subject "neatbooks", the kind that didn't have any wire or anything, just perforated pages. I filled these with pointless, free-form thoughts for the entire school year. In hindsight, I wish I had done this every year of school.

The reason I'm remembering them now is that my son has started keeping a journal in a notebook. I dug through all my old crap and unearthed these relics of the past because I thought he might be interested in knowing what his mother was like in her childhood years.

He said, "Wow, those are really old," and went back to his own journal. Jerk.

Anyway, I thought, "Maybe people who read my blog would be interested." So, if you're not interested in meeting Jenny at thirteen and fifteen, then get interested, friend.

I named these veritable tomes "Everything I Think In Chronological Order," and "Everything I Think In Chronological Order II: Birth of An Alternateen". Really. That is what I called them.

Here's the May 21, 1996 entry from "Everything I Think In Chronological Order II":
I have to go see Margret today. (ed.-- Margret was my counselor. You'll see why I needed one as you keep reading) I'm stressed out. I hate how people always eat during class. It's like they think they are totally different and don't have to follow the rules. That makes me angry.
Niki Davenport moved to Grand Haven. She's going to be a paramedic.
I found this book, R.E.M. REMarks. It has cool pictures in it of Michael Stipe before he was in the band, like, when he was in high school. He was gorgeous. He still is cute, but he's old now.
(ed.-- Michael Stipe was like, thirty-six at the time.) Oh well. You know, I have no idea how old Dave Matthews is.
There was a poster of a guy parachuting on the bulletin board by the office that said, "A mind is like a parachute; it works best when opened." And Jill took a big black magic marker and wrote, "Hopefully certain facist members of the administration will come to realize this," and drew an arrow and the next day they took it down and put up a "Happy Graduation" bulletin board.
I hunted all over hell and high water last night for the May 3 Entertainment Weekly because it has a thing about the new Dave Matthews album. I want that album. It's like, cool that he can dance around all crazy and play the guitar at the same time.
The beginning of this book is like, an REM concert journal. Thanks for reading through it. It's like, somedays I think, "Wait a minute, who's going to want to read what I wrote?" And I get very upset. But then I think, "Wait, lots of people are interested in what other people wrote."
One of these days I'm going to be saying something bad about Natalie Merchant, and she's going to be right behind me and I'll feel really stoopid
[sic]. Wait, what if she reads this? What if Tori Amos reads this? I'M SORRY, TORI! I LOVE YOU! I WISH I HADN'T CALLED YOU A TALENTLESS SLUT!
Now that I prostrated myself at her feet, I feel better. Hey, maybe Michael Stipe will read this. Whoa, maybe Christian Slater will read this. Hey, Christian Slater, my number is
[ommitted] Dial (616) first. Michael, Tori, Dave M. and Courtney (Love, not Cox) can all call me. Hell, if anyone wants to call me they can. I'm cool. Especially when I went through the ice. Bad joke.
REM rules. Maybe one day my kids will say, "Mom, REM is so old," and I will say, "Shut up, asswipes, REM rules."
Maybe when this gets published, I'll have them put in scratch n' sniff pages.
I'm in driver's training @ Sears. My teacher is such a nut.
Writing on your hands is cool. I like writing on my hands.
I'm directing a short film with the girl scouts from St. Monica's, and this little girl reminds me of Julia Ormond. She's from England and has long hair like Julia Ormond had in Legends of The Fall.
I have auditions for Lil' Abner tonight @ Comstock. I was in Kiss Me, Kate last year. It was cool. I really want to be in Lil' Abner. It would rock more than two thousand popscicles.
I wish the bell would ring.

The weird thing is, I don't remember actually wanting to be a writer, but it's clear from these journals that I planned on getting long, repetitious thoughts about REM published some day.

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