Okay, here’s the thing: when I was 14 started this, my entirely lame Disk Diary. I was keeping it on a disk because I didn’t have my own computer and even if I had, it’s doubtful I ever would have been able to figure out how to set a password. Anyway, I couldn’t believe when I found this floppy disk. I hooked up my ancient desktop computer, plugged the thing in and found that it still worked. My feeling is that it is an omen, telling me that my story is important and that others must read it…that or it’s a coincidence. Either way, I deserve to be published. So here it is. It’s weird, but I swear I didn’t make any of this up. Most of it was in ridiculous fonts, Comic Sans and crap like that. I kept the original, but saved a new copy with normal fonts for easier reading (although I did leave all the typos in, just for kicks). If you see any more huge passages in italics, it’s just me explaining things a little better. I hope this is educational.

Mary Daisy Myerson

September 21st, 1997

Dear Diary: Today I turned 15. This is the worst birthday ever!! My parents got me some stupid board game that’s designed for eight-year-olds. I really wanted a CD player or a cell phone, or something at least remotely cool. Grandma got me a really great coat. It’s red and vinyl. I think it’s probably supposed to be a rain coat, but I don’t care. It’s the only good present I got this year anyway :-P.

September 24th, 1997

Dear Diary. Billie Barrett told me that he likes my coat. He is SO cute! I’ve had the hugest crush on him forever! I’m starting to think that maybe he likes me too!! So THANKYOU Grandma, for the best coat in the world!! B-D

Sept 1, 2000

Ugh. That is just so like me. I start some stupid floppy disk diary, make some totally pointless entries and lose the damn thing for nearly three years. Keeping in the spirit I started this in, I’m using the font that most closely resembles my current handwriting.

Anyway, a quick update: I still wear the coat that Grandma got me (of course, there’s duct tape holding it together now… even when I don’t wear it I get called Little red riding hood. Oh well. I’m off to university next year. Maybe the people there will be a little more enlightened. Umm…what else?

Grandma’s gotten really sick and my dumbass parents put her in a home. Luckily, the place is close to our miserable little subdivision, so I can visit her fairly often. I’m actually going over tonight.

Still no news on the guy front. I dated John for all of five minutes, not that that counts.God…I’m not even twenty and I’m doomed to eternal spinsterhood. I can't believe I used to pine after Billy Barret. The last I heard about him, he’d dropped out of school and was engaged to a stripper. Funny ol’ world.

Later on Sept. 1, 2000

I am never, ever, ever smoking anything ever again! Or drinking. Or anything. I was cutting through the “forest” (that spit of land full of poor excuses for trees), smoking a joint in celebration of passing my English enrichment exam and my approaching 18th birthday, when I saw this…man…thing. It looked like a dude in a wolf mask and period clothing. Immediately, I figure this guy’s spun, and I started moving quickly. Our conversation was as follows:

Wolf Dude: Why, hello, little girl.

Me: Pardon?

W.D.: I said hello, little girl.

Me: Hi.

W.D.: Where are you going?

Me: Who the hell are you?

W.D.: No need to be confrontational, dearie.

Me: Leave me alone.

W.D.: What’s in your backpack?

Me: None of your damn business, that’s what. Who are you?

W.D.: My name is Mr. Wolf.

Me: Oh. Okay then. Good for you. Excuse me.

W.D.: And you are?

Me: Little Red Riding Hood. Now go away. (this whole time he had been following me)

W.D.: Where ever are your manners?

ME: I must’ve left them at home. Good day, Mr. Wolf.

W.D.: Good night, little girl.

Okay, there are crazy people in the world, granted. But what are the odds of me running into one who thinks he’s a wolf, when my nickname is Little Red Riding Hood? Really? And why did it look like his mask was really his face? I mean, I guess it could have just been some jerk messing with me, but I wasn't really thinking reasonably on account of the pot, so I called him back.

Me: Umm…Mr. Wolf?

W.D.: Yes, little girl?

Me: Stop calling me that. I’m nearly eighteen.

W.D.: Oh?

Me: Yeah. Why are you here?

W.D.: Is that meant rhetorically?

Me: No.

W.D.: I live here, in the forest.

Me: This isn’t a forest, it’s a tree stand. You couldn’t possibly live here. What do you eat?

W.D.: Nosey little girls.

Me: For the love of god, stop calling me little!

W.D.: And why should I? You behave like a child.

I was watching his face when he said that. The mask was his face. He had a wolf head. I looked at his hands, which were actually paws.

Me: (backing away slowly): How so?

W.D.: How so? Why, by quibbling over what I call you. What do you care if I think you a little girl?

Me: Maybe in wolfy-land eighteen equals little, but here in the real world, I’m an adult.

W.D.: I rest my case.

Me: (pointing) Hey, what’s that over there?

W.D.: Where?

He looked behind him and I ran like hell. I made it to Grandma’s but I cut my visit short. I walked the long way around to get home, poured myself a glass of gin (my last, I swear), and started writing this. Never again, for as long as I live will I smoke pot. Dear god, what’s a girl to do?