June 28, 1992

Italy: 12:38 a.m.
Montreal: 6:38 p.m.

Yes, vacation has started. We went through France, Paris, lovely as always. Italy is totally expensive and I feel totally ripped off everywhere we go. I think I should make this vacation into a movie one day because it is hilarious.

                                   Yeah, so hilarious that I didn’t think to provide any examples.

Anyway, I have been dreaming up a gillion ways of me meeting S.P.F. here in Europe, but I guess not, eh?

                                  Ugh, I’m so bored of this celebrity obsession. I can’t wait for 16-year-old me to get over it.

I have found three additions to my mental list of top 10 weirdest showers… This is one hell of a grimy hotel room. I think this bed is going to collapse soon. A trillion kajillion guys stare at Crystal (my sister, who must have been 18 at the time) all the time in all these countries. Some Italian guys tried to talk to her. One French guy asked her out. Some guy wanted to kiss her. One guy serenaded her in the street with his guitar. It’s weird (because she’s older than me) but when I am with her and those guys look at her and try to kiss her I feel like I should protect her. I always check to see if guys are ogling her. And I give them dirty looks. It must be flattering, but scary to be thought of as a sex object like that. well, luckily I’ll never have that problem (or unluckily?) Well, I must sleep now, bye.

                                   It’s remarkable how casually catcalling was taken in those days, and how little my parents seemed to care that their daughter was constantly being harassed, and how little the cat-callers cared that the teenager they were harassing was clearly with her parents!

July 11, 1992

We came home from vacation yesterday. I am having lots of weird feelings. Things I don’t want to write about because I don’t know how to express them on paper. I don’t want to. I just want to sleep and love S.P.F.

                                   And then I just go on and on about my celebrity crush and don’t mention a thing about all these “weird feelings”, nor do I recount any stories from our family vacation. What a lame journalist I was!

June 12, 1992

I am sad, sad, sad, in the depths of despair.

                                Maybe I’d just reread Anne of Green Gables or something…

It was storming earlier, I wish it would start again. I love lying in my bed with thunder shaking my heart and lightning lighting up my room and my flame.

                              My flame?!?!?

I get so excited at midnight tempêtes (French word for storm). They are the best way to get excited in real life. But the storm was mild and now is gone and I am sad. I have a bunch of new S.P.F. fantasies… SIGH. Every time I read I get wrapped up in my dreams and have to reread and reread the passages.

                               I still have that problem. I mean, not the celebrity crush fantasies, but difficulty concentrating while I read.

I have a headache and there is nothing like real life and I hate it. I don’t hate myself anymore. Now I hate people (except for S.P.F.) My pen is running out and so is my time.

                                  Oh geez. Was I trying to be poetic?

When will I be famous?

                                   Ahh yes, the eternal question. *eye roll*

That, along with meeting S.P.F. is my unattainable goal. 

                              Well, at least I knew these goals were unattainable.

I want to die an old maid.

                            Yeah, I must have been reading Anne of Green Gables.

Literally I don’t ever want my virginity to be robbed from me. Although I must admit I would give it to S.P.F. if he wanted it and he wore protection.

                             LOL! I was cringing and then I saved it with some good old ’90s sex ed.

I will save myself for him. So I guess I will die a young maid.

                           All I need now is a fainting couch.

I have changed in a year. I used to want a boyfriend, now I don’t. Unless of course it was S.P.F.

                           Yes, of course.

All the other guys I’ve liked I didn’t like the way I was feeling about them. But I like this feeling of devotion to S.P.F. He is different than all the others. It’s odd. Another thing that’s odd is that I’m writing so much in here lately. And when I start I can’t stop and I keep rereading it.

Purple moons and dancing shadows and bleeding tears and scary clouds and all those things.

                            I just… I mean… at least I never said things like that out loud.

If when I reread this, it doesn’t make sense, that’s ok, it doesn’t make sense now. PEOPLE ALPHABET. My next step, really… Don’t dig too deep.



                      Seems legit


June 11, 1992

I hate myself. Why can’t I talk when I’m with those friends of Jane’s? I always have so much to say. I’m even better with Genevieve’s friends than Jane’s. Why do I always clam up and shut up? Why do they intimidate me so much? I just cannot figure it out. They must all wonder what the hell I’m doing when I hang around them. They must wish I would go away. Jane told me that the guys all think I’m pretty but think I should talk. But they ignore me. When they look at me it’s like “what are you doing here?” All they ever talk about is sex, and farting, and burping! That must be why I clam up, because I could not add anything. If they would just talk about something I am interested in and ask me what I think I could go on forever. If I am invited to go to La Ronde with them I will go because I love La Ronde but I am going to be so weirded out. Maybe I should get myself on a major sugar high so I can be weird with them. I hate myself… 

                                    This is so sad. At least now I have the answer to the why. It’s social anxiety. I wonder if my adolescence would have been easier if I’d had a name for the problem, if I’d had a diagnosis. Probably not. It doesn’t make things much easier now. But at least the self-loathing is gone!

Nicole Natacha Yager, Genius in the next dimension.   

Lol! Wow. Genius, eh? Nice.


May 18, 1992

I just did these drawings and writings and I think they say it all.

                                      The drawings were at some point removed, but I put in a caption saying they were about my celebrity crush Sean Patrick Flannery.

May 22, 1992

God, it’s hot, I can’t wait ’till winter!!! I relaly, really love S.P.F. and can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve never like anyone so much (that is, someone I don’t even know). He has even made me for forget  about my Mr. Perfect. It’s not healthy for anyone to like someone they don’t even know so much. like him as much as I like Star Trek: The Next Generation! Hmmm, I sure hope he’s an atheist, I don’t know if I could handle it if he wasn’t. SIGH! I wish he were here!!!

                                    Then there’s another entry with more of the same, where I mention that I’m willing to put up posters and stickers about Star Trek, but not S.P.F. It’s sort of interesting that I was perfectly comfortable and open about my Star Trek obsession, but embarrassed about my celebrity crush, which is the opposite of how I suppose most teenage girls were at that time. I remember that New Kids on the Block were all the rage in those days and other girls were very open about their interest in the New Kids, while I just didn’t get it. I wonder if I had gotten it, if I’d been into Jordan or Joey instead of some obscure actor on a sci-fi/adventure show, I’d have been willing to openly express this interest. But then there is the question of who I would have expressed it to. I didn’t really have any friends at that age so it’s not like I was going to sleepovers and gossiping about anything, let alone boys.

June 10, 1992

At the beginning of this diary I said how I felt when about turning 15, and you know, I don’t feel at all 16. I don’t feel older physically, mentally, emotionally… anything. I still think of myself as a young teenager instead of an old teen (because 16 is the turning point). Maybe I’m not ready to be 16. Maybe I’m in denial. I don’t want to grow up. Except to be with S.P.F.

                                 Well, I certainly had some strong thoughts on the subject of adolescence and the wide gap between 15 and 16, didn’t I? This is a recurring theme in my life, always feeling like I have to play catch-up and act my age even though I feel younger. I’ve often gone through typical life stages about a decade behind others. For instance, I had my “sowing of wild-oats” phase in my 30s, rather than in my 20s, in college, like most people (or at least what popular culture tells us is typical of college kids). I still feel younger than I am. At 40, I feel like I should have accomplished much more than I actually have. But it’s probably common for people to feel like they haven’t done enough with their lives, or that they’ve missed out on things.

Nic, Nïk? Niek? Niec?

                               Here I was trying out alternate spellings of my name, as I was trying to figure out how to spell it so that people would pronounce it correctly. I’ve always disliked being called “Nick”, as I self-identify with the pronunciation “Neek”. In my IRC days (around 1996), I started spelling it Nique, thinking this would make the pronunciation clear (as in unique without the “u”), but still, very few people seem to understand the distinction. I should have gone with Neek.

May 9, 1992

I am crying because I went out with Genevieve last night and got an eye infection.

                                This made me laugh. I thought I was about to impart some great wisdom about the slow dissolution of my relationship with my best friend, but turns out no, I was just in physical pain.

I still like S.P.F. and I think he must be the one I like the most of all the guys I’ve ever liked because he’s made me forget about all the others. I don’t even like Taffy anymore. I used to think he was so great, and he’s still funny but our personalities don’t coincide. He’s not my type, he’s arrogant and not sensitive to other’s problems. He only knows what he knows, you know? He is oblivious to the world around him…

                                     What? What the hell am I on about? Am I still talking about Taffy, the teacher I had a crush on? I’m acting as though we had an intimate relationship, rather than one of child and authority figure. What had he done to upset me so much? And what did I expect? He was my freaking teacher!!!

B.H. 90210 premiered, I can’t see why people like Luke Perry… I don’t like Jason Priestly, I’ve forgotten about those others stars and the guy from art class. He’s nice but I don’t even want his friendship, I’m fine as just an acquaintance.

                                   Methinks I protest too much?

I would rather know this girl in my class.

                                Who? Why don’t I elaborate?

I am not as obsessive about S.P.F. but still like him.

                              Yeah, I was so not obsessed that I’d torn pictures of him out of magazines and tucked them into my diary. It’s ridiculous how I’m constantly berating myself for having celebrity crushes and then continue mooning over them. At least I’ve made progress on that front in the sense that I no longer feel ashamed over the celebrities I crush on. In fact I’ve had the same celebrity crush for about 16 years now and I don’t care who knows it. Jensen Ackles‘ beautiful face is the sole reason I still, STILL, watch the train wreck that is Supernatural. (I even kept watching after they killed off my female celeb crush Felicia Day!)

Right now all the stuff that matters and all I can think about is: Star Trek TNG and my art and my stories. Life sucks, I wish I could live in one of my fantasy worlds.



May 13, 1992

It’s my sixteenth birthday and I got an amazing gift. It was in People magazine. A picture of S.P.F. He was voted one of the 50 most beautiful people in the world 1992. 

                                       And then I just go on and on, ranting about how great he is and how I’m in love. #eyeroll

April 17, 1992

Boy, I haven’t written in this thing for a long time. I mean it’s 1992!

                                               And thank goodness it isn’t 1992 anymore.

Well, lots has happened of course but I’ve decided that… from now on I’m only going to write my dreams and feelings in here and forget about things that happen (unless it’s really relevant and important). I just read everything I wrote in here and it brought back a lot more bad memories than good ones.

                                              Yeah, I get that.

God, was I ever obsessed with having a boyfriend! In it somewhere I said I thought maybe I loved Jason Priestly. Give me a break, I never loved him! Then I “loved” Taffy, how pathetic. Well I am not obsessed with Taffy anymore although I still like him just in a friend way.

                                           Remember, we’re talking about my teacher here.

I am attracted to him but let’s not be so unrealistic. I have come to see that I always like guys that could never possibly like me, or rather guys that I could never have a relationship with. Like celebrities, Taffy, Tim (a guy in my art class), and most recently Sean Patrick Flanery (from Young Indy). They are all impossible relationships. I never like guys that could really be.

                                           Wait, why am I equating Tim from art class with celebrities? How exactly was some kid I went to school with on the same level as a famous actor? 

The most possible is that guy in my art class, but he’s the one I like the least. He started by always sitting next to me in class and talking to me so I thought he liked me but I never responded so I guess he lost interest.

                                            Yeah, typical me. I only realize people are into me in retrospect. By the time I catch on, they’ve moved on.

But I think I didn’t respond because I am afraid of having a relationship. The closest thing I ever had to potential for a boyfriend was that whole thing from Jane’s boyfriend blind group date thing.

                                              I’m talking about a blind date I went on where I was set up with my friend’s boyfriend’s friend about a year prior. Very interesting that I don’t go into more detail about that night, and subsequent hang-outs with the same squad, which were pure agony of social anxiety hell. I still remember it vividly though. We went to see Tremors, and then we walked around holding hands because my date and I felt like we were supposed to, even though neither one of us had any interest in the other. I recall my friend Jane telling me she set me up with this particular guy because we were both blonde, and therefore sure to get along. Makes sense. All blondes share a hive-mind after all.

But I didn’t respond. I want relationships only in my fantasies. Anything too real and I get scared. 

                                              Holy shit, remarkable insight for little 15-year-0ld me. 

Which is really too bad because I really need some love. I need arms to hold me when I cry… 

                                            Hilarious that I start this entry by shaming myself for being obsessed with wanting a boyfriend, and then proceed to talk about how much I want a boyfriend.

I want somebody to love, and love me. Namely Sean P.F. He is my latest desire. He fills the face of my fantasy men. I wish I could meet him. I hope he has a good personality…I think he’s great, even if he is American.

                                          Lol! Way to end on a xenophobic note there, young me. 

November 29, 1991

Friday. The dream I had last night was so weird… 

                                              I wrote out a long dream, but it’s not that interesting so I’ll spare you. The take home is that it was an anxiety dream of sorts, and perhaps one of my first instances of semi-lucid dreaming. The same scene kept happening over and over – an old lady trying to kill my mother and I – and I kept replaying it, each time more successful until finally I managed to get her to the police and escape. It was also one of the first times I dreamed in French. What’s more interesting than the dream itself was my penmanship as I was writing it down. My handwriting gets increasingly sloppy to the point where I had trouble reading it. It seems I felt it was very important to transcribe the dream, so I guess it had a big effect on me.

Friday, December 20, 1991

X-mas vacation began today. I have lots to say. That rhymes! (Taffy stuff, candy gram, crush development…)

                                        Oh god, here we go.

Did I ever talk about Taffy before? Well that’s Robert Taffendon my homeroom, History & EMR teacher. He is wonderful! First the candy gram story. It all began with me first comeing to the school. He always tells stories and he sometimes mentions his wife. Jane and I always pictured his wife as a blonde bombshell (I guess because he is a blonde babe). Every day at school we would see Mr. Taffendon with this other teacher (Mrs. Laventholl or something) so we were like, hmmm, he is always with that lady, she must be his mistress. Well one day in one of his stories he revealed that she was his wife. Jane and I thought this was hilarious (although we were disappointed). So every time Taffendon would pass by our table at lunch we would crack up. We dubbed him Taffy and her Missy, by the way. Before x-mas they were doing the candy gram thing. So we sent one to Taffy explaining why we always laugh at him. He thought it was hilarious and he loved it. Now I would like to think that I have this special, unique, student-teacher bond with him.

                                      Cringing. Nice of him to play along and pretend something so inane was funny though.

I really like Taffy. At first I had fantasies about him so I thought it was a crush. I guess it still is somewhat. I have the utmost admiration for that man. I always feel happy when I’m around him and I miss him already. I thought of going to school today just to see him but then decided not to get up early if I didn’t have to. He is going to Florida for x-mas (I think he’s Jewish). Jane is going too! I hope she gets some pictures of him so I can have some and put one in that thing I am making him for the end of the year. (a 1991-1992 memorabilia of Taffy.). Earlier in this diary I wrote that I wanted the perfect guy. Well, I have found what I think is the closest thing to it, but he can’t be my boyfriend because he is at least 24 years older than me, he is my teacher, he is married and has a child. It truly makes me sad to think I can never have him for my own. Maybe I do love him. I guess I’ll never know!

                                     Part of me thinks this is hilarious and part of me is crippled with embarrassment. I do distinctly remember Taffy but not what he looked like. I just googled him in an effort to remember but there are no pictures readily available. I did find him on ratemyteachers.com and found that he was still teaching at BHS up until a few years ago and kids still love him. He really was a great teacher, and I guess the novelty of such a thing fueled my infatuation. By then he was probably used to kids crushing on him and was completely unfazed. One of my clearest memories of him is a time I was the first one to come to class. I sat at my desk and he asked me how I was. I replied that I was fine. He said that I didn’t have to lie, that I didn’t have to say the expected pleasantly and could answer honestly if I wasn’t really fine. I guess he could tell that I was an unhappy kid. I don’t remember what I replied but that interaction always stuck with me. I really appreciated an authority figure giving me permission, if you will, to be authentic.



November 28, 1991

Thursday – Only a few more days until December and then almost a month until X-mas. I cannot wait! Even though we are going to Toronto this X-mas.

                               The most interesting thing about this entry is how neat my handwriting is. I don’t know what got into me. I guess I was trying something new. It certainly didn’t last. 

A lot has happened since I last wrote, so bear with me here. I got over J. Priestley a long time ago.

                              What a relief!

I liked Leonardo (I don’t know his last name) who plays Luke on Growing Pains. I don’t know… now it’s no one.

                              Lol. Remember when Leonardo DiCaprio was on Growing Pains? I’m glad my crush on him lasted only two weeks, and was well over by the time he became a bloated mess of a human manatee. 

I didn’t win that art contest. I saw the competition and I say the judges are on drugs. So the painting is in the basement.

                             I still can’t figure out which painting I submitted. No doubt it was garbage.

Jacques was here for a while. Now he’s in Edmonton, he’ll be back.

                            If that “he’ll be back” sounds ominous, it’s intentional. My sister and I were born in France and Jacques was our babysitter when we were babies. I was two when we moved back to Canada so I have no memories of him as a babysitter but several memories of him visiting us in Montreal. My siblings and I all passionately hated him, and I’m not entirely sure why. I mean, he was deeply annoying, but I can’t really pinpoint any particular behavior deserving of the extreme ire we felt towards him. He still creeps me out (though I haven’t seen him in decades) and I still don’t fully understand why. Sometimes I worry that he did something to us as babies that traumatized us and we can’t remember it but remember the feeling of fear.

I auditioned for the school play but I didn’t make it. The drama dude, Mr. Whittmore said I had a good delivery and that I made a strong impression on him but I didn’t even make it. Not even as a pictorial. I’m trying not to be depressed. My English teacher sent in a short story I wrote (Suspense, Don’t Bite Off More Than You Can Chew) to Fledglings (a collection of writings and stuff).

                          I remember that story. I was quite proud of it. The twist at the end is that the narrator is dead. Some kids in my class didn’t get it, but thankfully my teacher did. 

M&R is the best. We did hot seat, it was amazing. I was second to go. It’s weird because the person who went first said the number (for the next person) and she said 13. I knew right away it would be me, and it was. I loved it! My Art teacher gave me a pamphlet for the Canada Day poster challenge… I lost my agenda. It had such cool decorations. SIGH. Bye.

                          I remember that poster contest. My submission was garbage but I was still rather disappointed, perhaps even surprised, when I lost. In spite of my low self-esteem I was remarkably arrogant about my artistic abilities at that age. Thankfully that overconfidence fizzled away by the time I got to University and met people with actual talent. I also discovered that artists were insufferably pretentious prats (maybe I saw something in them I didn’t like in myself) and chose to go in a different direction. I guess this blog is evidence that I am returning to the ways of insufferable navel-gazing, but now I have a more realistic perception of my own art. Progress!

October 10, 1991

Thursday – I know I haven’t written in a really long time but hey.

                                      Usually when there are really long gaps in my journaling it’s because I’m too happy to write. I tend to only journal when I’m upset or depressed. But I doubt happiness is the reason for this particular gap.

Well, I like BHS a lot more than St-T, but there are still problems. Where to begin… I’m not popular and I will probably never have a boyfriend.

                                  Self-pity: check.

I entered an art contest and am doing a painting entitled Self Discovery.

                                Oh god, that sounds pretentious. I don’t remember that painting and let’s all be grateful for that.

I tried to be on the newspaper at school, but I missed the major meeting because I went on an art field trip and couldn’t make it, so I don’t know.

                            Interesting that I colour the truth even when writing to myself. I vividly remember the reason I missed that newspaper meeting and it wasn’t because of the art field trip. There was in fact a trip, that I did in fact attend, but it ended in plenty of time for me to make it back to school. I took the bus back, but because I’d never ridden public transportation before I didn’t know you have to ring the bell to be let off. I just kept waiting for the bus to stop, which it never did, and went way, WAY past the required bus stop. Eventually I realized that I’d missed the stop but by then I was paralyzed by anxiety, and too shy to ask the bus driver for help. I figured not being part of the school paper was a fitting punishment for this failure at correctly living life.

I’m failing math. There are extra things after school on Thursdays but I couldn’t go because of the painting. Mr. Math Teacher asked me if I could get help during other classes, but I don’t want to fall behind those either. So he called my house and now my mom is pressing me to stay after school but I don’t want to spend more time at school than necessary! The thing is I probably would have stayed once the contest was over and I could spare the time but I’m too stubborn to do that because I don’t want mom or Mr. M to think they influenced me. I want to do well on my own, but I just don’t understand math… SIGH.

                      Bullshit. I think I was failing math simply because it required the least bit of effort. I’m sure I could have done fine if I’d just tried. My proof for this is that I’d managed to do well in the past. At that age almost all schoolwork came easily to me so if something was even slightly difficult I just didn’t bother. Laziness born of melancholy I imagine. 

One night I had a dream about the show Beverly Hills 90210 (it’s a show that is really popular, but we don’t get it here). I wanted to see that show so bad that I dreampt I saw it. In the dream I met Jason Priestley (the star of 90210) and we were going out and stuff. Now I am obsessed with him. In a weird way I think I love him. Not in a fan way, I don’t have a bunch of pictures of him all over, I don’t swoon over his face (in fact I keep forgetting what he looks like) but it’s just a feeling deep inside. All the interviews and stuff I read about him, I don’t like his personality (a smoker and stuff) but I guess you can’t control your feelings. I’m hoping that if I win the contest (300$ prize) I will have confidence and stuff and will forget about him.

                      Wow. Thankfully that particular infatuation didn’t last long. I have no recollection of ever being into Jason freaking Priestley! Ugh.

I guess everything leads down to that stupid contest. (I also failed a history test because of lack of study time).

                        Why was I so obsessed with this art contest? I can’t for the life of me remember a single thing about it. I have to assume I was lying to myself in these diary entries, trying to blame my failures on something concrete, rather than on my more nebulous inability to take personal responsibility.

Oh well, life sucks. I wish I were more independent. If things don’t get handed to me easy I guess I’ll have to die young.

                           Lol. That’s some refreshing self-awareness there. Good thing I eventually got my shit together. Now people sometimes criticize me for being TOO independent!

P.S. I love M&R class. Mr. Taffenden is the coolest teacher.

                          M&R stands for Education Morale et Religieuse, also known as EMR, also known as MRE (Moral and Religious Education). It’s the class non-religious kids took back in the day when the Christians were taking Christianity. Is that still a thing? 

P.P.S. I cut my hair.

                            It’s now long again. I have come full circle 😉

August 20, 1991

Tuesday – Marlene is going to come here by bus and we are going to have fun. (she will come Friday and stay ’till Monday). We will go to Fairview and movies and La Ronde.

                                    I love how determined I was to have fun. I sound like an android. “We WILL accomplish this thing you call fun.” FYI, Fairview is a mall, and La Ronde an amusement park.

Speaking of La Ronde. My brother came into my room this morning saying he was going to La Ronde with his friend (he borrowed 20 bucks) so he wasn’t here to let in Bob (our stupid worker dude who is putting a third bathroom in our house) so I was sleeping and in my dream the doorbell rings and the other girl goes to get it and it keeps ringing and I slowly drift awake and hear the doorbell, by the time I figured out what was going on it stopped ringing. I fell back asleep again and then net time I woke up I think it was mom who came in the house. I fell asleep again and what woke me up this time (at 2:00 p.m.) was music so loud I thought the singer was in my room! I heard Bob and his little helper singing along (ooh, my ears!) then it sounded like they were in the kitchen eating or something. Like what are we paying them for?! Anyway, Bob the idiot doesn’t know I’m here and I don’t want him to, so I’ll stay upstairs and sneak around as best I can. I’m starved, oh well, I need to go on a diet anyway, and need to use the bathroom but I want to wait ’till they are in the garage and it doesn’t seem to be happening. Gosh, I hate this, why do I have so many goddamned problems?

                              I was cringing in pain as I transcribed this, but then the lament about having so many problems made me laugh. So here’s the deal: I’ve got social anxiety, but as a kid I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I was afraid of people. I was deeply ashamed of it, but afraid nonetheless. And because I didn’t understand what it was about, it was all the worse. I sound like a spoiled brat, hiding in my room, sleeping in until all hours, refusing to open the door for our contractor, forcing my mother to leave work to do it, and from an outside perspective I can see how ridiculous it seems. But I didn’t remain hidden because I was bratty, I was truly afraid. Afraid of what, you might ask? Any interaction that I wasn’t prepared for. I was panic-stricken and frozen in fear.

Even today I do silly things like this. As recently as a month ago I was in the bathroom taking selfies when the doorbell rang. I knew my significant other was home so I let him answer it. (I don’t answer doors when I’m alone unless I’m expecting a delivery). It was our contractor and he came in and proceeded to have an unnecessarily lengthy conversation with my SO. I figured I’d wait them out but… after half an hour it became ridiculous. They were right outside the bathroom door so I knew I’d startle the contractor if I suddenly appeared, but it felt equally awkward to stay hidden. I chose to stay hidden, and basically stared at myself, chastising myself for being so weird as I waited for him to leave. Oh well. Some things never change.

School starts the 28th. Maybe something good will happen then, maybe I’ll be popular and have a great boyfriend. SIGH.

                             I guess I still do this sort of thing too, i.e., hope for the impossible. Every time we hire someone new at work (which happens shockingly often) I think maybe it’ll be someone totally awesome and we’ll become fast friends and conquer the world together. But then it just turns out to be another utterly normal human being and I’m disappointed again. Still, I’ve made some progress. I’m much more capable now of enjoying the company of normal humans than I was when I was a teenager.