Diary-ah

"I've come to the end of me."

Man, I love that line. It's so wonderfully melodramatic. Too bad I couldn't have used it three days ago so that I could have quoted the movie on the actual day. Oh well, there's always next year.

Anyway, the last time we looked in the old diary I was a fresh-faced 22-year-old girl with nothing but my future and a butt-load of crappy jobs ahead of me. A year or so later I finished university, moved to Toronto and began an exciting career in a) explaining what Anthropology is and b) why I chose to major in it.

When I finally entered the white collar world, this was all I had to say about it:

August 29, 1995 (age: 25 - mood: thankful for making rent)

The down side is that I work in Insurance, but the up side is I have a job. Of course they're paying me a secretary's salary for Junior Broker work (which between you, me and the ficus, is pretty much the same job anyway, so I shouldn't really complain).

Not a very interesting entry, you'll agree. Now, times that level of interest by 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and you'll understand the Insurance biz. Thankfully, I got laid off and had a chance to branch out...

June 25, 1997 (age: 27 - mood: thoroughly confused)

I am unemployed. I thought I had a job at [horrible ad agency], but... nope. So, I've got until September 8th to find a job (in Advertising hopefully). So I've got a lot of time to sit and think what I want to do with my life (& how to do it - which I have no idea).

Oh no, no, no. Advertising is NEVER the answer. HEAR ME YOUNG PEOPLE AND BEWARE! You see, that is the problem with being even slightly interested in writing or visual arts. Well-meaning people in your life tell you you're "creative" and should "do something with that". Then innocents like me think "hey, advertising is creative!". This kind of evil thinking is what those jackals feed on.

Years later, when I was well and truly entrenched in the belly of the beast, I realized that my earlier prediction about my sister's boyfriend had come true... about me! I was miserable and coming to some sort of fuzzy conclusion about my work situation. In my last ever entry I expressed my feelings on the subject:

May 11, 1999 (age: 29 - mood: ismudlicheit)

You know, I saw a PBS program once where they were talking about whales in captivity. The only way they will cooperate with their trainers to learn tricks etc, is ONLY if the trainers PLAY with them for at least a sold hour every day. Or else, NO WAY, they're not going to work.

I think I might be a whale in captivity.

Not only are the physical characteristics startlingly similar, but I need to have fun to be motivated to work. I'm earnestly industrial for the first year or so in every job but then... something happens. I lose the desire to flip through the hoops. Especially when they're on fire. I HATE those ones.

I'm in trouble at work right now. They're starting to notice my crippling inability to get anything done in a normal amount of time. I doubt they can fire me for it, as I stay late to get it done, but I've grown cranky and they've started to look at my timesheets. I feel a change coming... I may have to leave just to save face. Or to get some new motivations.

It's hard to find good trainers these days...

Shortly after that I decided to become a temp. And, counterintuitively, my life got better almost immediately. I got a couple of really interesting jobs, met some interesting people, and have been to some really cool places. Sure, I've had to explain myself a lot about not wanting a real job, but I'm used to explaining myself by now. The point is I stopped worrying about it and it became much more easy.

But you know it's funny. You live your life just being you, discovering the things you discover, feeling the emotions you feel, developing habits and likes and dislikes, drawing certain conclusions based on those things, and you think you're totally unique. Then you read your diary and you realize that at any given time you're just going through a phase.

Boy-crazy pre-teen phase? Check. Pseudo-intellectual, righteously-indignant, Smiths-loving teenager phase? Check. First-crushing-heartbreak phase? Check. Soul-searching, angst-ridden twenties phase? Check.

Sure, not all adults go through the exact same ones, but there are plenty of them to go through all the same. There's the finally-getting-your-parents'-point-of-view phase, the hey-I'm-not-actually-going-to-live-forever phase, the my-boss-is-a-know-nothing-jackass phase. Hell, there's even a I-think-I-might-be-the-Son-of-God phase (granted, this one's pretty rare).

The fact is there is nothing new in this world, no new emotions to feel, no new thoughts to think, no new mistakes to make. Sometimes I find that depressing, other times not so much. It certainly takes the pressure off to be original, that's for sure. Maybe that's why I haven't written in my diary in about 6 years.

(Oh yeah, and I got my computer around then, too. Heh, go figure.)

Anyway, that does it for this week's updates. I hope you enjoyed peeping into a stranger's diary as much as I did. I MEAN IT WAS MINE ALL MINE AND NOT MY ROOMMATE'S! I mean, uh...

Have a great weekend everybody!

Diary of an Freak

Well, long about this time my mind turned to such wonders as the occupational arts. What would I do with my life? What were my goals? Did I have some sort of plan in place? Let's watch...

April 1, 1990 (age: exactly 20, plus a day)

[my sister's boyfriend at the time] is never going to be happy doing the job he's doing because there's too much stress but he wants money so he's willing to put up w/ it. I don't know if I'll be able to do that. I think I'll be able to work, but I don't want to, I don't know, be upwardly mobile. I want to be able to live comfortably. That's all. I don't like stress and I don't think I'm willing to put up w/ it for money.

Oh, isn't that adorable? As though job-related stress is an option you check off on the application form. Heheh. Younguns. Also, good to know that I was pretty sure I'd be "able to work". Coulda gone either way, I'm glad it worked out for me.

Anyway, at that time I started university and hadn't really thought too clearly about what I was supposed to do once I finished. I declared a major based solely on my affinity for the subject matter and the fact that all the professors had Far Side cartoons up on their walls. (Good thing I wasn't interested in making money.) Did I have doubts? You bet!

March 15, 1992 (age: 22 - mood: write-y)

I know I should finish school because I won't be able to get a good job without a B.A. but in Anth? How many jobs are out there? I'm such a dweeb. Why would I pick that?

Excellent question. Two years into the program. Okay, so maybe I didn't have the best game plan. But at least I had hard work and dedication on my side. Right?

Same entry, only pages of angst-filled ranting later

The one thing I have learned, tho, is that it takes all kinds in this world. And whats so bad about being moderately lazy? Will I be killing someone by not doing my homework, or not making my bed? The western work ethic sucks anyway, if you ask me, which you didn't. What has it gotten us? Fabric softner, clock radios and a hole in the ozone layer the size of Brian Mulroony's ego.

Oy. I don't envy this crazy bitch when she has to go looking for a real job, I tell you what. She can't even spell the PM's name right. And what does she have against fabric softener and clock radios? Is she some kind of Mennonite?

Geez, well I certainly hope all of this worry, rationalization and speculation actually gets her somewhere, and years later we find her happy and stress-free in a job she doesn't hate.

You have no idea how much I hope that.

Up Tomorrow: The very latest entry in my diary ever! Thrills!

Deer Dairy...

There comes a time in every young girl's life when she realizes she's going to have to get dressed up in a frilly dress and eat in front of other people. For me, that time was the Prom. We actually had two proms, since I stayed in school for grade 13. So the first one shouldn't have been a big deal. But you'd never know that from my diary...

April 5, 1988 (age: 18 - writing: small, illegible, slanted to the right)

Oh my god, the prom is only a month and a half away!!! Big deal. Do you know how sad it's going to be? It's going to be sooo bad. I want to go stag, but nobody wants me to. You'd think I was upsetting the Great Chain of Being by the way people react to it. I mean, really. It's 1988 for cryin out loud. I've done the date thing and frankly, I'm not impressed. I think it would be cruel and unusual punishment to make a guy go with me to a prom. If the music's good (and it had better be) I'll be dancing the whole time and he'd probably want to dance with me and he'd probably be a rhythmless dorky-lookin white guy [etc. ad infinitum] The Prom is for boyfriends and girlfriends to set a date to have the big ba-boom. That is all.

Whew! Methinks the girl doth protest too much. Well, I mean, sure it is a stupid tradition, but of course I wanted to go. Although, I didn't have a boyfriend at the time, so I really didn't see why there was such a big deal about procuring a date. There was no one I was secretly hoping to go with and so there was no chance of a Pretty In Pink-type ending in store for me, either. But not wanting to go with a boy was good practice for my aloof, oh-so-independent too-cool-for-anything persona that I was trying out at the time.

April 28, 1988

John [name changed to protect the innocent] and I are going to the Prom. Don't ask me how, it's too long. He's not a loser and I will have no trouble keeping his hands off me. It is going to be okay, as long as there is no documented photographic proof that I was there. John and I aren't really the prom types.

Well, it's a girl's perogative to change her mind, I guess. I'm not sure why I was so concerned about keeping people's hands off of me, I must have had intimacy issues. Hm. Oh, and yes, there was photographic evidence of me at the prom. I even smiled. Go figure! However, I didn't get around to writing about how it went until the next year, though.

(I tended to write in my diary very intermittantly. *cough*)

March 17, 1989 (age: 19, writing: horrific, pretty much what it is now)

So, anyways, about the Prom thing. Well, it wasn't like any horrow show or nothing. It was sad 'n stuff, but it wasn't the worst night I've had. I didn't get drunk or the big Ba-Boom*, as I so eloquently put it. Not like I would have, though, as John is a flamer, pouff, fag, etc. I ended up wearing a black dress that was short and lacy and pretty. What was even better, though was I starved myself to look nice and thin and some other girl had the same dress on and it looked really bad on her. I know that sounds horrible. It is horrible, actually. But then again, she probably got drunk and the big Ba-boom.

*I can't be sure, but I think this is a euphamism used to refer to sexual intercourse.

Oh well. As it turned out I actually had a good time. It was not, however, the Time of My Life(tm) as advertised, but it wasn't bad. It was a good idea to go with a platonic friend, especially a gay one. The best part: he could dance really well, something I was obviously concerned about. Plus, whenever there was a lag in the conversation we could talk about John Waters movies.

As for the rest, I have no excuse for the cattiness in this entry except to say that I was 18 at the time I thought it. However, if I were you I'd blame Big Fashion, too. Making me think I had to starve myself, sheesh. I only weighed about 12 lbs at the time, no wonder I was so damn bitchy. I probably just needed a sandwich.

Tomorrow: The Terrible Twenties

Diary of a Madwoman

Well, it's day two on the journey into the centre of my deepest, darkest thoughts. Everybody ready for the gruesome?

July 17, 1984 (age: 14 - writing: fat, slanted to the left)

Oh by the way, Jenni & I have been best friends since grade 2 and we will be friends forever. I can probly tell her almost anything. I'm going to buy her a card to show how close she's been to me. Night!

Actually, Jenn and I have been friends since grade 1, and yes, we're still friends. Granted, now she's got a husband and three kids and we live in cities four hours away from each other, but we're still friends. I saw her a couple weeks ago when I was down in Windsor and we had a very nice time together. I really should get around to that card one of these days.

July 18, 1984

Well, Jenni & I went to the river on our bikes. We saw these two guys. They weren't bad. We hung around for awhile. They were fools, as are most boys my age. They tried to hit birds with stones. Trying to be cool. Then one guy went swimming. What a fool! I wouldn't let Sissy [our dog] swim in that water if I can help it. Well, goodnight. I'm tired. Oh, I'm really telling you about the 17th. I put 18th because it's 1:51 am. Night.

I really never thought of myself as boy-crazy, but in re-reading my diary I've discovered that it was pretty much all I wrote about for the longest time. And invariably I was displeased with them. They either paid too much attention to me, or not enough, were too stupid or were trying to be too clever, etc. (sound familiar guys?) Perhaps by the end of the diary I finally figure out what it is I want from them. I wouldn't bet on it, though.

Oh, also, the river I refer to is the Detroit River. And it really is pretty scary for people to swim in. I wouldn't recommend it. Not even for your dog. Seriously.

July 24, 1984 (writing: thinner, still slanted to the left)

Last night the dog bit me. It hurt. She bit me in the nose. I went to give her a kiss and she bit me instead. I'll live. I guess it does sound pretty funny.

Despite my obvious concern for my dog's wellbeing and my diligence in keeping her from the clutches of the evil Detroit River she still brutally attacked me, and for nothing more than loving her. Can you believe that shit? Well, I guess that's what I get for trying to forge a close relationship with a beast who cannot communicate or express real emotion. I'm sure that sort of thing never comes up again...

Tomorrow: Prom Night Horror

Go Ask Alanis

Well I had a lot of fun doing last week's update and I must thank Craig for giving me the incentive. I liked the time constraint, too. It's like I'm some vaguely rebellious mixed-up kid who secretly likes having boundaries set for her. So I guess I'm just like every other blogger out there. Damn.

Anyway, I had so much fun, that I thought that I would try to update this blog every day this week. I know that I've already kinda missed Monday, but what the heck. I shall persevere.

Say, speaking of vaguely rebellious mixed-up kids, guess what I'm going to inflict on you this week? I wasn't always a blogger, you know. Once, when I was young and free and wild at heart, I kept a diary. They say that the diary can be a window into the soul.

Please.. Take a long, steaming gander at my soul, won't you?

December 24, 1982 (First entry - age: 12 - writing: thin, slanted toward the left)
tonight is Christmas eve. I got to open one present from my sister, that's the one I picked. It was this special book. I like it a lot. It's pretty and I can hardly wait 'till tomorrow!

Well, it's an inauspicious start to a diary, but it is factual and hints at the possibility of describing something at some point. And, unlike most of my writing now, it was succinct. But let's take a look at two days later, when I've gotten the hang of writing in it a bit...

December 26, 1982

today I tried out my alarm on my clock radio. I also tried my first taco. It was worse than I expected. I met some of my mom's friends. [At this point I put a little arrow pointing to the next page in case I forgot that books continue from one page to the next.]I like them alot. They make me feel comfortable not like some other people I know. They're the only people I like that I know. They're nice.

I'm not sure what I was expecting from tacos, but apparently they failed the test. Also, I think that "not like some other people I know" is a dig at my Mother, but I can't be sure. If I had to bet I'd say that was the case, as I was 12 at the time and starting to realize that I knew everything in the world and my mom knew precious little, especially about things that mattered.

You know, on my own it would be hard to remember a time when me and my family considered tacos exotic. If my diary did nothing more than to remind me of this, it has done its job.

Tomorrow's Exciting Episode: Friendship, Sex, and Violence!