January 28, 1993

It’s Thursday and there’s no school tomorrow, yippee! That’s especially good because I just got my period but really bad ’cause Jacques is coming tomorrow. I hope his plane crashes. Should I feel guilty for saying that? Ahh, who cares!

                        I’ve written about Jacques before and how I hated him but can’t quite figure out why. Just reading his name now, as I was transcribing this, gave me the creeps. What did he do???

I like myself at the moment, I’ll say why but let me begin at the beginning. I’ve been feeling petty stupid because I never signed up to get my grad photo taken and now it’s too late, but I didn’t because at first I didn’t know it was for the yearbook and the teacher (idiot!) forgot to give us the notice papers about all this. So when the time came for grads who somehow missed getting it done to sign up again I was like, I guess I’ll go sign up Friday but Friday school was cancelled due to freezing rain! I guess I might have gone Monday but I was like, why bother, I have no friends anyway, who cares?! Then Wednesday I felt even dumber ’cause in drama we couldn’t go to the auditorium for some reason so we went to the fishbowl and I sat on gum! So I had a big wad of pink gum on my white jeans for the next class and it was really embarrassing ’cause I had to go up to the front of the class to say my speech for public speaking. God, I almost died. But the speech went well enough even though I spoke too fast. Today, this morning, I was feeling disappointed ’cause i didn’t get chosen for the semi-finals and it’s not fair ’cause half the class wasn’t there yesterday so some who might have voted for me didn’t (but I probably wouldn’t have gotten enough votes anyway, with my touchy subject [does God exist?]. It’s just as well not so many people were there so they didn’t see my bubblegum ass!) So anyway, as I said I got my period so I was having major cramps in my classes before drama and when drama came around I was praying to Q I wouldn’t have to say my story. I went to the bathroom and before I went into the auditorium and crouched down into the hall and cried, that’s how bad I felt. So I was all uncomfortable in the class and then Mr. Whitmore goes: Nicole, you’re next! So I’m like, oh shit! But I went up there and my cramps subsided and I said my  Echo and Narcissus story. I mixed up some lines sometimes but no one noticed (except Jane of course, who I practiced on). Everyone really liked it! Especially Mr. Whitmore who said it got a 95%. He also said I would have made a good Helene in Midsummer Night’s Dream (the play he was gonna do but didn’t). So I’m pissed that I didn’t gt the chance to be Helena in a school play but I’m still feeling pretty good from that uplifting compliment. Sigh, life is worth living. 

                             Well ok.

P.S. Mom is afraid of losing her job because… boy it’s a long story, worthy of TV. But I won’t tell it, I’ve written enough.

                          Yeah, god forbid you write anything interesting that isn’t all about you. I now have no recollection of what this TV worthy drama was, except that my mother’s boss was quite the piece of work.

P.P. S. Hey, did I ever write about x-mas vacation? I didn’t? Well, it was great. I got two new porcelain dolls. I love them. My other gifts were cool too. I was on the verge of happiness then, more than I am now. I really hate school I guess. Cegep application time soon, ahhhhh!



December 10, 1992

I can’t wait ’till x-mas vacation. Only 6 more school days.

                         I still count down to vacay.

Isn’t it strange how I can only fantasize in the privacy of my own house (usually my room, sometimes TV room) when there’s no one else around? It’s like I’m afraid the people around me will read my thoughts.

                       I wasn’t talking about erotic fantasies or anything. Just regular melancholy wishing.

Once again I’m in Whitmore’s class, supposed to be writing an essay due Monday that I haven’t even started yet. I never write in my diary anymore. I only write on papers and insert them in. I should really rewrite the shorter ones or this diary won’t be able to close. I’m gonna have so much to do this x-mas vacation. I have so much to do before x-mas vac. In my last class I had the hiccups mondo time and now my stomach is grumbling an 8.5 on the Richter scale. STAR TREK TNG was one of my fave episodes last night – the one about the time loop thing. So cool! As usual Data saves the day. I’ve been thinking about a STAR TREK show that my bro and I invented. It will be called STAR TREK: THE CONTINUING MISSION. Cool, eh?

                      Yeah, super cool bro. And why did I continuously all caps ‘Star Trek’ in this entry? 

AAAAAGGG my stomach hurts! I’ve gotta buy a couple candy grams. I complain about it but I like receiving them, it’s a good feeling to know that people care enough about you to send you a 35¢ candy cane via homeroom mail. Sounds cheesy, and I guess it is. I don’t even like candy canes! I’m getting three as far as I know, so I’ll put them on the tree! Our tree’s nice I think. I did most of the decorating. I wish I had a gift exchange to do (not school wise of course). Mom’s doing one at work, the lunch table people are doing one. Keith’s doing one (even though it is class room wise) I wanna give and get. Oh well I guess I’ll just have to wait ’till x-mas. I just heard someone say that candy grams are not a measure of popularity. Of course they are! Everything in school is either a measure of popularity or academic achievement (both very unjustly weighed). I’m pathetic. I just realized I’m truly the queen of pathetic. I have no life outside of Star Trek, school, and drawing, ya know? I’ll never make it after school. I’ll never be independent. Most of all I’ll never be famous or meet my crush. I might as well face it, I’ll never meet him. Never in all my life will I ever know him. Never. I’m pathetically pitiful. I’m sitting here, writing to myself, supposed to be writing something I don’t get, and I’m not, and will never be, even significant enough to be counted as a statistic. I don’t matter at all. None of my dreams will ever come true. I’ll die young and loveless and pathetic. Life is just a bunch of lies. We lie to our friends, family, peers, authority figures, those over who we have authority, our environment, even ourselves. I’m a fake, do I know anyone who isn’t a fake? How could I know? Only the bad fakes are revealed to me. With all this, I still go on. Why do I go on? To spare grief to those I love? Why bother? I’m not sparing it, just delaying it. So I can see how the world turns out? Partly, but who cares how it will turn out once I’m dead? So I don’t miss out on all the things I want see and do? Partly, but I’ll never do them anyway, I’ll just give myself more grief. Then why do I keep on living? Fear, that’s why. Because I’m afraid. Not afraid to die, but afraid to live but also afraid not to live. I’m afraid I’ll lose the only thing I ever really had. I’m afraid to end my life, because after I turn over that point there is no turning back, no remedy for the situation. Of course once I’m dead I’ll never know the difference anyway but as I’m alive, I’m too scared to take that chance. Well, I seem to have run out of space, so I’ll reread this now and surprise myself with my own insight and realisticness. 


November 30, 1992

I’m totally bored. I hate school. I hate people. I don’t hate TV. I don’t hate movies. I don’t hate drawing. I hate going to school and being at school and being on the bus and the people on the bus and the people at school. I hate Mr. Whitmore, I hate Jane, I hate everyone but my mother and brother, and Beau Gars. (my celebrity crush). I hate school. I hate all my classes. Sometimes I hate myself, not now. I  really hate Mr. Whitmore, I seriously wish he would die. I wish I could kill him. I wish I were Q. I WISH I WERE Q. I hate my life. I am so full of hate and have no way to release it. How can I release it? Maybe I’ll make a voodoo doll of Whitmore. Yeah! I wish I were Q.

                                  Yeah, so that pretty much covers that. Kind of interesting that I never hated my mother, eh? Way to eschew teenaged girl stereotypes. 

                              Mr. Whitmore was my English teacher. At one point he called on me, to comment on something in a book the class was reading, and I took my time formulating my answer, apparently too long, because he got pissed and yelled at me, and the entire class, that we must answer questions, and not simply sit there in silence. I was utterly humiliated, and that moment has remained seared in my brain as one of the most embarrassing in all of high school. I don’t remember the timelines, so I don’t know if this happened before or after, but another time, he asked me to comment on another book, and I quite honestly replied that the book had made me realize that I’d never been happy. Even though I knew this was an embarrassing thing to say, I said it anyway because I knew it would shock him, and shut him up. Even though I was indeed embarrassed, I got the desired effect, because he stammered in response, hesitantly asking the rest of the class if anyone had a similar reaction. No one responded, because of course they didn’t, but to this day I retain that as a moment of triumph over an asshole of an authority figure. In retrospect though, he wasn’t that bad. I actually had a bit of a love/hate relationship with Mr. Whitmore. I also had him for Drama, and I was basically teacher’s pet in that class. He once said, to the whole class, that I was the only student who ever understood what he was talking about. So that was nice.

                         When I say I wish I were Q, I’m of course talking about the Star Trek character, not the Bond character. I no longer wish I were omnipotent, ’cause that’d be boring, but I still love Star Trek. I’m recapping TNG these days, so head on over and check it out.