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.

                         Ok…

crying-eye

                      Seems legit

 

The green line

metroThe first thing to be considered in this situation, as in any situation, was the safety of innocent bystanders. The man knew the best thing to do would be to carry out the deed in the privacy of his own home, where no one else would be bothered, with the use of something non-violent like pills, or perhaps a razor blade to the wrists. But the man, who thought of himself as a reasonably empathetic person, wanted, if he was being honest, other people to be bothered. He wanted the event to make the news. He wanted to be known, for once in his life, as a person who had accomplished something interesting. Gruesome perhaps, but interesting none the less. This act was selfish of course, but he was tired of being unselfish. He was sick of being the one who always handed in his work on time, of being the one who always held doors open for others, of being the one who always agreed with the consensus, even though he didn’t actually agree. He wanted, truly, to be disagreeable.

Still, there was no need for anyone else to be put in danger. His first idea had been to jump off a bridge, but that would cause a collision and many drivers and passengers would possibly be killed, and certainly traumatized. On the metro, only the driver of the train would be traumatized, and STM workers were all assholes anyway.

The man chose Lionel-Groulx station because it was busy, and important, but not quite as important as Berri-Uqam. He walked up to the platform on the orange line several times, but lost his nerve, and thought perhaps the green line would be better, because it used the older train cars. No use ruining one of the new cars. He rode the escalator up and down a few times, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. He wanted witnesses but not too many, not enough that they’d be able to stop him. He got off the escalator and stopped, considering his clothes. What a waste, he thought, to ruin a perfectly good dress shirt and pair of slacks. Yet undressing would attract undue attention. Still, his shoes were in excellent shape, and had only been purchased two weeks prior. He carefully took the off and placed them at the top of the escalator, hoping another man with size 10 feet would be able to make some use of them.

Finally, he knew he was ready. He stood at the edge of the platform, where very few others were standing, and waited to hear the train. He sang a nursery rhyme in his head in order to keep doubtful thoughts at bay, and when he would see the headlights, when he could see the man driving the train, he jumped, secure in the knowledge that this was in fact, the right decision.

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.