goody two shoes superglued. virgin dance.

A return to the castle.

I miss high school if only because back then I had time to update this diary. Not to mention the energy. My complaining – er writing – on the internet has suffered since I left high school. I lament this only because I enjoy looking back on my grouses, "Oh to be 13 and complaining about English homework." "Oh to be 16 and complaining about zits and divorce." "Oh to be 20 and complaining about exams and divorce."

Yeah, I’ll always complain about family and the divorce. But with deeper and more complicated insights!

Speaking of which…I take up my keyboard once again – for a day? a month? – to fossilize my 21st year before it lays to rest and I’m left with a gap in my memory. After all, I’m going to use this diary one day as a reference as I write my memior – or a television script about three college dropout ruffians who work in a movie theater for minimum wage and live with their parents.

(Also known as….Reaper, but substitute the Work Bench for black pants and red polos.)

But really.

I’m a month away from my 21 and a half mark. Six months ago I was unemployed. out of school. single. no plans for the future.

But this is all formality. I’m here to punch that card.

Wasting my firsts so it’s not horrible when the moments are with someone I want to last.

I had my first kiss.
And many after.
And, typically, it was an awkward heavily internal monologued moment.
The heavy internal monologue continues to follow me like a pesky documentarist, quietly narrating my thoughts, be they awkward, out of place, judgmental, or plain random during the most intimate milestones of my life.

First kiss. People enjoy this? But it’s so….slurpy.
After which I fled his cadillac straight into the arms of I’m so getting drunk tonight. Fixed myself a screwdriver but made it only a few gulps down before dumping my defeat down the drain and slumping into bed. Try as I might, I can’t get myself to enjoy alcohol. Yet I steal wine from my step mother’s wine fridge and pour myself a glass hoping this time I’ll acquire the taste and finally drink my narrator away.
Because the next option is getting stoned.
And my goody two shoes are glued so tight to my feet, like Grim’s little girl’s red dancing shoes, i’ll have to chop my feet off at the ankle before I know where to begin.

But then perhaps those shoes were knocked loose when I knocked boots with the first boy that said "I love you", despite my pleas to keep that word in a bag far and safe from me. You don’t love me. I ordered it away. By which I meant, I don’t love you.

Still, I wanted to get it over with. Finally at least minorly comfortable with the slurping and blunting the gag reflex in response to his wagging tongue – the next step.

The internal monologue sucked my sex drive dry as we fumbled with clothing – me on a script I hardly believed I was actually playing out – Does this count of out of body?I’m imagining this as a scene from a movie. It’s so indie awkward. My parents asleep upstairs, even. And I’m 21. Late bloomer. I should focus. On this. Right. Buttons, buttons. "You’ve had sex, right?" No…"It’s okay", he says, "I’ve never had sex with a guy either." Even that line!

But that internal monologue sucks my sex drive dry – it’s a mood killer when everything hurts too much to do the deed. The Ghosts of Awkward Indie Movie Past haunting my thoughts, my waking moments. The narrator groans, but leaves the embarrassment to solely me.

Thank God, though, because I bleed everywhere, this time in a more appropriate (or not in a less appropriate place – the couch at my parent’s house) place – his bed at his parent’s place.

And while it happens, I think too many things, not focusing on the moment, gripping his arms and channeling the pain into biting my lip and holding my breath. I feel worse about his lack of release than my own pain. I listen to my narrator analyze this and it occurs to me that I am purposefully trying to think about anything else. He means well. I don’t say no. But still, the word rape – a label consciously out of place – floats to the top in my internal monologue alphabet soup.