Wednesday, November 11th
Dear Diary:

Dear diary…?

Well, that’s how all the emo chicks begin their memoirs, isn’t it? They spill their guts to an inanimate tablet of paper that doesn’t give a damn, which will forever keep their darkest secrets until the tears dropping during countless emotion–filled confessions wash away the ink completely.

It’s almost poetic. In a sick sort of way.

Trust me: I’m not a fucking poet. In fact, I’m not quite sure why I’m even writing this. I don’t consider myself “emo” and I’ve got friends I vent to on occasion, so it’s not like this is a last resort for comfort. That would be pretty sad, and I can’t imagine myself descending to that level – especially not over boys and lip gloss.

No, I guess there are just some things you can’t share with another living human being – things that you can’t say aloud no matter how hard you try. And I guess I just can’t keep all those things inside anymore.

To make a long story short, Tracy had this extra notebook in her bag – she threw it at me in study hall this morning (which we nearly got thrown into detention for) – and I have no other use for it. Maybe it’s a god–send.

Yeah. Right.

I’m not looking for answers. Just relief.

And so, I begin on the 11th of November: a half–hearted attempt to alleviate my hurts and history before the holiday comes. It would be nice to wear a real smile this Christmas for once.

But that’s wishful thinking.

So anyway, let’s try this again.

...

Wednesday, November 11th
Dear diary (take two):

The first entry.

My name is Christy Louches. Why that’s really important, I’m not sure. After all, I’m the only one who will ever read this. I think I just need to be completely honest if I’m going to do this at all. I mean, what’s the point if I don’t spill it all?

Continuing, then.

I’m never going to get all this out, am I?

...

Dear diary (take three):

I’m 17 – barely – and I have a pretty fucked–up life. I live with a mom I hate, separated from a dad I love. Perfect for a sitcom, but I don’t think it’s funny. I can’t fight custody since I’m not 18 yet and I’m not abused, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend I’m happy with the way things are.

I’ll never be happy with the way things are.

So now that I’ve made that clear, allow me to briefly describe the people I call “family”.

...

My mom:

Her name is May. She’s everything a mother should be: protective, caring, loving, understanding. Gives me lunch money without expecting to get it back. Drags me to church on Sundays no matter how hard I protest. She’s almost perfect, and yet I hate her.

For no other reason than because she made Daddy leave.

And for that, I can never forgive her.

She can do everything else right – baby me, feed me, love me, take a fucking bullet for me. But she took away the one person who gave me purpose, who made me feel like I was worth something. She sent Daddy away because she couldn’t get along with him anymore. She didn’t think about me, she didn’t think about him. She was too selfish to think about us.

She just made him leave.

And a big part of me wishes she would do the same.

...

My dad:

His name is Fess. It’s an odd name, but I wouldn’t like any other on him. It just fits. Like that jacket he always wears – it looks like it was tailored for him. He’s a music junkie – kind of like me; in fact, he made me the way I am, so really I’m kind of like him. He’s always reminded me of Harrison Ford, only better–looking. The way he’s built, the way he acts, the way he grins…

Only, he’s not an actor. He’s not Han Solo, he’s not Indiana Jones.

He’s my Daddy.

He’s my hero. For real.

But he’s not here.

And I don’t think he wants to, either.

He sends me letters, calls me on my Birthday, buys me expensive presents. He promises to visit – in every card, with every phone call. But he never comes. He doesn’t come because he has no time. He has no time because there are just too many things that are more important. He always insists that he’s just too busy – too much to do.

But I know better. He just doesn’t want to come.

Sometimes I wonder if he really loves me. And then I remember all the good times we used to have, and I feel guilty for ever thinking that.

But then a month will go by and I won’t hear from him.

Two, three, then four.

And I’ll begin doubting again. It’s a vicious cycle, and I don’t think it will end any time soon.

I don’t think it will ever end.

...

My sister:

Her name is Carmen. I wish I could call her a whore, or any other nasty name just to make myself feel better by contrast, but the truth is she’s just as perfect as my mother. Straight A’s, beautiful, polite, religious to a fault. Thank God she’s away at college – I won’t have to see her until Christmas – but time has a way of speeding up when you don’t want it to. I know firsthand.

Carmen taught me to play the guitar. She tutored me through grade school. And she taught me to hate everything about God that mom didn’t manage to do herself. All her “good” ways, all her “right” ideas, all her morals…

Disgusting. She devotes her life to worshipping an invisible entity – a being with no name, a being impossible to understand. She won’t have sex, she won’t cuss, she won’t drink. She wants to be perfect, flawless. Maybe she thinks she is, just because she doesn’t do those things.

Because of God.

Because she “owes” it to God.

God?

Ha. Don’t get me started, diary. That’s a discussion for when I’m feeling particularly angry. That’s a discussion for when I have a fresh pen and about six more notebooks to spill my hate over into.

I guess that means I actually do believe in God, then. I’ve never really thought about it before. But I guess God really does exist. In fact, I’ve never doubted that he’s up there – floating on a cloud, poking me with his lightning bolts now and again whenever he gets bored of tormenting the “righteous” people.

Yeah, he’s up there. He’s just got a fucked–up sense of humor.

And I don’t like it.

So, I guess that means I’ve got to write a little more about me. After all, this is a diary of my thoughts… Well, there’s not so much to tell, really – I’m not that interesting of a person, unless you take particular interest in girls who don’t find themselves attractive, who remain reluctant virgins, or who hate pretty much everything about their lives.

Now that I think about it, I guess it’s a good thing no one’s going to read this later – they might call a shrink for me. Put me in a padded room until I talk all my sorrows out and start taking a bottle of pills a day.

Scary to think about.

My hand hurts. That’s enough for one day. And so, let me finish this first entry off with another cliché of all girls’ memoirs:

I think you’re the only one who cares, diary.

Ha. Who am I kidding? Who are they all kidding?

You’re just the only one who fucking listens.