Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

So last night I had dinner and drinks, and drinks, and drinks with a couple of friends.

It was an early bird special.

I'm on a budget.

There's an economic crisis, people. Happy hours are in order! Patriotic even!

I digress.

Somewhere in the midst of our conversations (which ranged from the aforementioned economic crisis to my friend's former job as the mail reader on the short-lived Richard Simmons television series "Dream Maker") -- it was suggested to me that I either start a blog or have a baby.

As I said, I'd had a few drinks (don't judge) so I'm not sure why these are my only two options, but I've decided to go with the blog.

Blogs are free. Babies are very expensive, as far as I can tell. And they shit their pants. This is not their fault -- they're babies -- but I'm just saying...

Blogs are basically a diary only without a lock. A few years ago, as part of her fruitless attempt to rid her house of all of her children's useless junk, my mother sent me a bunch of my old diaries. I wasn't strong on dating my entries, but they basically began when I learned to write and have never stopped. I'm not gonna lie to you, they're dull. Yet I felt compelled to catalog every dull moment of my young dull life. What is fascinating about them is, these diaries prove I have been the same person since the 5th grade. For example:

May 21 (somewhere around the age of 10)

I just got back from camp. I went with my fifth grade class. After I got home Angie asked me to come to her house with 3 other people. What a dope! I hate Angie! While we were at camp a bunch of roomers went around about the counselors being in bed together. I don't know if they are true or not. (time lapse) I have not gone to Angie's party yet. I hope I sprain my ankle or something like that. I'm too tired to go to her dumb party. And I'm sure, she calls me up the minute I get home from 3 nights at camp to sleep at her house.

I HATE ANGIE!


Ok, setting aside the disturbing possibility that the teenagers charged with the care and well being of a gaggle of 10-year-olds were instead getting it on in the woods -- this is clearly not a "normal" reaction to being extended an invitation to a party. But 20+ years later, I stand by my Angie hatred. I don't like sleep overs. I don't like being away from home for long periods of time (unless on vacation in a four star hotel). And most of the time, I'm happy to sit on my couch, watching reruns of Golden Girls, and not engaging in any form of social interaction.

Back off, Angies!

Incidentally, the next day I wrote:

I didn't have such a bad time after all. I'm surprised.