I was looking in one of my old journals for recipes, and I came across this entry, dated 11-25-98:

Sample Dialogue [the 'gue' was somewhat obscured, as I had written it in pen and evidently misspelled it]

Me: I'm not going to laugh anymore, I'm going to be studious and solemn.
Jessica: What?
Samuel: Like that act you put on every Monday for Mrs. Swift? [Mrs. Swift was a teacher in this homeschool co-op we both went to; she taught world history]
Me: What? (I really didn't hear it.)
Samuel: (same thing again)
Me: Yeah, but it works doesn't it? I got an A. (I walk away)
.________________. [this is similar to the divider I wrote in the entry]
I know it isn't much but it's the best I can do. I have to stop acting so smart; it's not winning me popularity points. I just want friends, Jessica might be my friend. But I'm not sure I want her as a friend; I can't keep up to her and I'm not sure I want to. Samuel is pretty nice. He's quiet anyway, kind of pusillanimous I suspect. Here are the key points: remember to smile, sit up straight, chew with mouth closed, don't answer too many questions in class, don't mumble.


It's always amusing to read old diary entries. I was 13 when I wrote the above, in case you were wondering--and I flatter myself that my writing skills have progressed somewhat since then. There was another funny entry a few pages back, in what I assume was September 1997 (I ever write in journals but infrequently):

Me, me, me...

You might think I'm pretty self-centered because all the things I write in here are about me. Well, THIS IS MY BOOK! If you don't like it, read someone else's crappy autobiography. This book is my private, secret, confidential, classified, top secret, for-my-eyes-old, did I mention private? memoir. So if you're reading this I'm probably dead. Either that or when I was sailing on the Atlantic a huge puff of wind blew this book, which was incedentally [spelling error here: I was only 11] in a sealed Ziploc (C) baggie, overboard where a very bored kid was sitting in his grandfather's boat reading September's Sports Illustrated for the umpteenth time and just was lucky enough to find a book, handwritten by another bored kid (me), to occupy his time. But I think it's the former.
A sentence expresses a complete thought. My thoughts are too complete to fit between a capital letter and a period, but somehow I squeeze them in.

I was quite precocious, wasn't I? In case you were wondering, I've never gone sailing on the Atlantic...