October 23, 1994
You should know that I don't consider you a diary at all. Diaries are for little girls with pink bedrooms and fluffy slippers and moms who tuck them into soft beds at night even if the little girl complains that she's too old to be tucked in. I don't have any of that. I barely even have a bedroom. And I certainly don't have a bedroom of my own.
I share a room with my twin brother, Emmett. Which, if I'm being honest, is kind of awful. I mean, he's seventeen. And seventeen year old boys have needs. Well, if I'm gonna be REALLY honest, seventeen year olds (in general) have needs. Myself included. I've just learned to deal with my needs in the shower like a normal person. Well, a normal person who's seventeen and still a virgin. He deals with his needs whenever they strike. But whatever. I've only walked in on him once or seventeen times. We tend to pretend it never happened. We tend to pretend a lot of things.
Anyway, I've gotten off track. I should probably tell you now that my getting off track happens a lot. I don't know why I can't focus. I think it's because I have a lot on my plate. I go to school every day. I work part time five days a week. At a diner. It's awful. And I basically act as a housekeeper here because my dad, Charlie, is always working and Emmett couldn't wash a load of clothes if the washing machine promised to suck his dick while the dryer fondled his balls.
To be honest (because I promise to always tell you the truth) I don't know if guys like to have their balls fondled. I mean, it seems like something they might enjoy. However, I do know they like their dicks sucked. I learned that when I was fifteen and Mike Newton offered to "let me" suck his in the gym after freshman PE. I kicked him in the balls instead. So, my takeaway (Mr. Banner says that we should always have a takeaway from lessons we learn in life) is that kicking balls = bad. And fondling balls probably = good.
Shit. I got off track again. What I wanted to tell you in the beginning is that from now on, I won't be calling you Diary. Seeing as how I'm lacking all the pink and the mom and stuff. You are NOT a diary. You are a journal. A journal doesn't seem so girlie. Nothing about me is girlie. Except my vagina. And as we discussed, I only address my vagina when I'm in the shower. Anyway, I have decided to call you Veronica. As for why the name Veronica, I can't really tell you. I don't know. It seems like a cool name, and if this sharing secrets with you thing is gonna work, I need to imagine that you're a cool chick. So, Veronica it is.
So, I guess that's it. At least for now. I need to get to sleep before Emmett gets home from work at Newton's Outfitters. And yes, Veronica, I've often thought about telling him what Mike Newton offered to "let me" do two years ago, but I know he would just beat the shit out of him. And Emmett needs his job. We both do.
PS: There is one girlie thing about me. Maybe I'll tell you about it tomorrow.