September 3: 1:17 pm, in the car
Destiny has spoken to me once more, and has brought to me a journal in which I can say anything I want and write everything I please. Why didn't I think of this before? I am a writer, after all. And writers are observant creatures by nature. Now, instead of talking to myself or venting to my dog, Olli, I have this wonderful stack of bound paper that will never leave or forsake me. Or laugh at my stupidity. Or tell me I'm wrong. I feel so womanly and empowered.
But really, in all honesty, I just think that my uneventful life would sound much more interesting if it was all written down. So I must open my first entry with my fancy disclaimer: This is the truth, the real candid truth about my life and all my deepest insecurities, ambitions, and innermost desires. In the event that I die prematurely, I give Steven Spielberg permission to adapt my diary for film. Please be sure to cast Emma Watson as the leading role, and make sure that my many romantic suitors physically favor Ryan Reynolds and Robert Schwartzman.
Thank you whatever higher power that possessed me to make my way to the stationary section of WalMart ten minutes ago.
This time, I will actually use this journal like I say I will. Yeah, in the past I've started journals before and forgot about them a month later, but my past does not define me. And this time, I really will use it to the fullest extent because I'm setting a goal for myself. I will take this journal with me wherever I go, and I will make time to write in it. I must, I must. I've already plastered the sticky notes all over the wall so I can't forget. Plus all this extra writing I'm doing will help me in writing my stories, most specifically my novel-in-progress about a girl who survives a plane crash and has to survive on a desert island until she is found. I'm still irritated that my plot sounds an awful lot like Blue Lagoon, you know, the 80s movie starring Brooke Shields. I swear, I hadn't even heard of that movie until a few days ago when I saw the preview for it on Hallmark. Boy, was I maddddd. And since then, I've been fiercely editing the story. I also refuse to watch the movie until I am mid-publishing, when no one can say anything. Or I won't hear them over the sound of my best seller.
The timing of my discovery was absolutely genius (to me, anyway) because tomorrow is my first day of sophomore year. And I don't know whether I'm excited or whether I'm... Not. I haven't really changed this summer, except I discovered my hair's Holy Grail. Now I don't have to rock the poof as much as I have for basically all my life. My hair is wavy-curly now, and actually lays flat-ish. I like it, but I didn't think it was as big of a deal as everyone made it seem. My mom was borderline ecstatic when I walked out of the salon. I'm sure she didn't mean to, but it sort of forced me to wonder if my previous hair was really so terrible? I know it wasn't the sleekest or the shiniest, but she made it out to be this life-changing event. Like face reconstructive surgery. I was just happy I could actually brush my hair without destroying it. The brush, I mean. My mom wasn't the only seemingly relieved one, either. I was almost convinced my neighbor was going to faint when we got back to the apartment. Even my dad raised an eyebrow when he saw it, and he only does that when he's really surprised. Jeez, it was only a keratin treatment. We'll see how "beautiful" it is in three months when it wears off and the frizz is back.
Taking it one day at a time.
Elaine hasn't seen it yet, though. I sort of think I should tell her in advance, because the last thing I'll need is for her to make a scene first thing at school tomorrow. She is not the quiet type, and she can easily make herself heard. The first day back is far too early for stuff like that.
To prepare myself mentally (and physically) for tomorrow, my mom and I have spent the day looking for last minute school supplies. You know, the stuff they suggest you buy that you know you won't use. (Case in point: tell me why last year on the list of recommended school supplies for freshman Algebra, a protractor was on the list? I'm not the mathematician of the family, that's my mom, but I thought Algebra I focused on the basics, like setting up equations and finding missing variables. And even after gently reminding my mother of that, she insisted that we find the best protractor this side of the state. I used that protractor all of one time, and that was only because it had a built-in circle stencil.)
Now we're off to Target, trying to find one of those cool zip up binders, making sure to find one in the most attractive shade of yellow. Druneston is a school of "prestige", so anything remotely attractive is deemed a "distraction to a student, hindering his or her academic progress," hence the yellow binder. I can't believe it's an actual requirement. If you ask me, yellow is the least discreet color out there. If this was an issue of distraction, we would have more subtle colors, like, I don't know, burgundy or navy. Even our uniforms are black with yellow accents. We don't look like tigers, we look like wasps. C'est super.
Mom asks me if I'm seriously bringing this book into the store. Of course I am. I've read The Princess Diaries a whopping total of seven times, and if it worked for Mia, it works for me. Besides, writing while walking must be great for stimulating brain activity. No Alzheimer's for moi.
Note to self: when walking in major areas of a store, it is time to close the book and look up. The running away from the stand of what once was boxed jewelry tactic can only work so many times.
I found a zip up binder, the last one in stock. It's not yellow (because no one makes yellow binders. Ever), it's black. Mom sighs and tells me we need to try another store, but not without suggesting that I just buy a normal, three-ring plastic binder that we just found. I can't have a plastic binder. Where's the zipper? It's definitely not thick enough to store all my assignments in it. Not one to pass up an artistic opportunity, I take the black binder and make my way to hardware. Yellow spray paint? Yesyesyes.
Let it be known that I am a firm believer in DIY. And it is not, mom, unreasonable to buy a black binder and spray paint it yellow. I think it's quite cool, actually.
"But what isn't" Mom starts, "is that journal of yours. Put it away before someone thinks you took it."
No, I will not put it away. Freedom of speech and freedom of press. I can write whatever, however, whenever I choose. Our forefathers did not die on the front line so I could pass up a chance to stick it to the man. Woman. After all, this is America. Mom just looks at me, tired and desperate. I put the book away, deciding that now is the time to be selfless and think about my mother's inevitable aging and the added stress I'm putting on her body. But really, I'm putting it away because she's still holding the binder, and my mom has a certain quality about her that scares me when she gets irritated.
But this is not the end… I'll be back later.
