June 3, 1926
Dad (or Abner, as I've been calling him lately—things have been a little rough between us since he missed my 17th birthday for some dumb seminar about the Ark, always with that stupid Ark) always said I'd make a great writer. I always said that for that to happen, I'd have to actually like writing. Funny, the things an almost painfully hot, boring summer day can drive a girl to do... things she'd never normally do, like turn down a day at the lake with Burt Dines, that cute psychology major from down the road, so that she could write. Write, for godssakes. What was I thinking?
Well, now that I've discarded the opportunity for a perfectly pleasant outing (and therefore, I am not at all ashamed to admit, some perfectly pleasant action) with Burt, I may as well give this whole "writing" thing a more than half-assed shot. My name, since I've never kept a journal/diary/etcetera before and I figure it's a good way to get the whole introduction thing over with, is Marion-Claire Ravenwood—people usually just drop the "Claire" part and call me Marion. Or Mary. But I like Marion better.
Pretty standard girl, I guess. American, which is neat. Wavy dark brown hair, peachy-ish skin with a few freckles… like I said, standard. I like being outside when possible, but at the same time, I'm not one of those outdoors-y types either. Books are amazing, my sanctuary, a God-send, anything fictional…I'm sorry, but Abner's obsession with history has more or less turned me permanently off of the non-fictional world. I also like drinking (anything, but my favorite is vodka) and playing cards with the guys I've grown up on this suburban Chicago street with, many of whom are now under pop's tutelage as history and archaeology students at UoC, but don't tell my dad that—he's still under the impression that I'm something of an angel. Then again, that's probably the impression most dads are under, and I pity the poor bastards.
But who wants to read about me anyways? Not that anyone's going to read this, I hope. Why do people write in journals, anyways, if no one is going to read them?
Remind me to think of a good hiding place for this thing…
Okay, I have to go—Abner (a not-so-terrible cook, when he actually decides to come home for dinner) is calling me down to the dining room. Normally it'd take me about ten minutes to heed that call, but I smell roast beef, so au revoir! Haha.
Until later,
Marion
P.S. Forgive me if I never get the discipline to write in here again. Thanks. Bye!