me+13=geek. You want proof? You got it.

I've been trying to come up with an appropriate post transition from my last entry, because it didn't seem appropriate to just jump right in makin' with the funny. However, if there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that sadness is best accompanied by a humour chaser. Therefore, I'm expanding my recent willingness to humiliate myself through old photos, and am today giving you the gift that keeps on giving: a page from an old diary, with the added bonus of being partly ballet-related. You're welcome.

First, behold:

Notice, if you will, the bubble-cursive letters. This style dates back to the 13th year of life, when flair and roundness were favored.

Next, the translation:

Once again, I have tons of things to tell. School started. Wow yippee! Ballet started too. I got the part of Clara in the "Nutcracker". fun fun. My birthday was 3 days ago, I'm finally 13, Yeah! I haven't really had a party yet, but I will soon. I slept over Christine's house last night. It was so much fun! We ate so much junk food. Also, Chris's sister knows this girl named [name omitted to save her from needless humiliation]. She has a younger brother named Bill. He is 13. We were talking to him on the phone last night for so long. Then, later, Everyone told me that in my sleep I said, "Billy, hold me!"and when I woke up for some unknown reason, I said "Jesus H. Christ." Just like that! Right out of the blue!

Enthralling, isn't it? Let's deconstruct.

Exhibit A: Note the attempt at nonchalance over receiving the part of Clara in the Nutcracker. I can safely say that was the biggest thrill of my life, up until that point, anyway. How sad is it that I thought I was too cool for my Diary? (I'm also too sexy for my shirt, but that's a story for another day.)

Exhibit B: Love that the highlight of a slumber party at my friend's house was 'eating junk food.' My mother never bought junk food; not out of any great health concerns, but that shit was expensive. If she did, it was of the old-school generic variety, white bag with black letters: POTATO CHIPS.

Exhibit C: Talking to a boy on the phone for 'so long' was, in my thirteen-year-old life, about as good as it got. Especially an unknown boy, which was always way more exotic and held more potential for the coveted 'make-out session.'

Exhibit D: As a Catholic schoolgirl, saying "Jesus H. Christ" was like buying a First-Class ticket for the Express Train to H-E-double hockeysticks, so I had to put a disclaimer in my Dear Diary with the Just like that! Right out of the blue! as if to say, "Are you there, God? It's me, Carolyn. About that blasphemy I mentioned: I didn't mean it and it was in my sleep so really it wasn't even me talking it was the devil and please don't send me to the fiery pits of hell and I'll promise I won't have impure thoughts about Billy or any other boy until I'm at least 30 and also I'm sorry about looking at the playboys in the attic I promise I don't remember what those hard girls look like amen. p.s. thanks for the junk food that was AWESOME."

If I turned this blog into a self-deprecating humiliation-fest, fueled by my many diary pages and old photos, I'd have material to last a lifetime.

Or until I'm sent to H-E-doublehockeysticks.

Amen.