Bus Note

I spent 2 summers as a camp counselors in the Poconos, which I originally thought was pronounced poCOnos until my parents got a good laugh out of my request to travel to that non-existent mountain range.

Farewells at camp included "bus notes", mostly to encourage the crying of every girl on every departing greyhound who was being torn from the woods to return to the Upper East Side (or somewhere comparable). This is the rough draft of one of my bus notes to a fellow camp counselor.

The receiv-ee of this classy lil note reminds me slightly of Janeane Garofalo but a bit bubblier and substantially less-socially appropriate. She had been extremely sick for the week prior to departure.

Bus Note:

B.G.,

As you waste away (on the toilet), I've grown progressively (in the stomach region). Sometimes I'm jealous of your diarrhea sessions, but I'm even more upset that you feel so shitty. I wish when I saw you yesterday as I was meandering around the social, you didn't look like death. Although, I was happy to find you sitting alone in a canoe.

I f'in hate when pens run out of ink. Mother of god.

Moving on- I'm coming to visit you because you're up there on my favorite people list. Plus, Boston smells nice. And my future husband is there. Diary insert-> "I need a strong, athletic, but still creative man who's tall & handsome. I'll find him someday."

Anyways, while I'm gone back to Florida, think of me when:

a.your pubes take over your thighs [normal B.G. circumstance]

b.you pull off dirty toenails that are worth eating for $100 [re-curring bet made w/ B.G. by campers due to her raging nail-growth]

c. you're attracted to underage boys [normal for me]

d. when you hear "summer lovin" in duet form [normal for me- with underage boys]

I'll miss your wit and lack of inhibition.

I don't like when pens leak, shit. Now you can't read anything. Ah, hell-

Have a great year.

-me

*underage boys- any counselors at the boys camp who were younger than me; preferably from England; at least 18 years of age.

I'm not mad about the pen smudges anymore. Otherwise, there'd be no rough draft.

Stop flying time.

Before you're entirely confused, just know that there is no order to these posts. I have a tangential mind, and so I will have a tangential blog. Don't try to make sense of it.

I have this diary for camp. Goals at camp: Get in shape! Laugh! Teach! Meet great people!

Later, I will come back and hopefully check each off. I only have 4 1/2 years until college ends (including my master's program). I'm already depressed. Is that weird? Not really cause soon I'll be re-reading this thinking, "Jeeze, time flies!"

Stop flying time. I'm nervous.

Let's begin in the middle.

You're obviously bored and so I welcome you to my first diary excerpt.

I can ask you not to judge, but I'd only be kidding myself. Just take it for what it's worth. I do this for the kidz. Read on fool.

(Names changed...for my own dignity)

12:22 a.m

..... So I end up here, in this state of unrest with nothing to do, as I am at my parent's new house (with no friends).

Which brings me to my next dilemma.

Calling the ex. Jay B.- the 1st boyfriend (and last). He's still in love w/ me and we claim distance broke us up b/c what was once a perfect companionship turned into an insecure wreck, but all the negatives pushed me out of love.

2 negatives become a positive,

but 2 months of negatives become a splinter, a nag, a headache,

an anchor back into singlehood...

That, as well, is my problem. So I call. Or I don't. But in a result I get ignored (which brings anger) or talked to (which brings Jay to believe I still want him---"like that").

I'm just going through the break-up post-pardon depression- I know that makes no sense, but I wrote post, and if you go back and read up until that point you'll see I really had no logical way of ending that sentence. Intermission.

You have officially wasted 3 minutes of your life on my emo-tastic blog.

Hello Virtual World. Welcome to my Past.

"I do not keep a diary. Never have. To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit."

-J. Enoch Powell

I've held on to several volumes of vomit. Enjoy.