December 22, 1992

I was thinking that in 7 years I’ll be 22. In seven years, it will not only be a new century, but  a new millennium. I feel a bit strange. I mean there has only been one other millennium.

Not to suck the fun out of this, but the new century and millennium won’t actually start until 2001 – so the New Year’s coming up eight years from this date. Also this dating system is arbitrary and the earth has existed for 4.5 billion years.

Can you imagine the party people will be having?

Yeah, the real parties will happen 1999/2000, all the fact-loving losers will have their nerd parties 2000/2001 or not at all.

I intend to spend that New Year’s in a strange place, alone, with a big bottle of wine.

On New Year’s Eve in either seven or eight years, S will throw up on your leg in the back of L’s car. I can no longer remember which of the “new millennium” New Years we were celebrating, though.

I’m in Latin again and Mr. P is talking to us about Becoming

Risk and adventure. He talks of risk and adventure, but also of marriage, security, predictability. What’s so risky and adventuresome about them? (crying) Mr. P believes all this greatness in marriage, but when I hear him I think of closed doors, being caught…He asks what runs my life, the thinking me or the feeling me. Definitely the feeling me…

I am just incredibly irritated by these reason/imagination, thinking/feeling dichotomies. This isn’t really how minds work. They are not useful categories. It’s neither a constructive nor an interesting model.

He says that means I’m going to be murder in marriage…

That I, a 10th grader, was having a conversation with a teacher about what kind of wife I would be is grossing me out.

I think that no one is going to ever understand without me explaining. I think that’s really what I need and who I can fall in love with: someone who understands exactly how I feel without me having to say it. 

No one is ever going to understand. No one is ever going to call you up or leave you alone or tell you what you want to hear or bring you a doughnut exactly when you want them to. This struggle is universal.

I go on about my talk with Mr. P a bit more, which is making me cringe so I’m leaving it out. Basically, I’m saying that I like talking to him because we can still talk about things even though I don’t agree with him at all. This reminds me of something one of my favorite authors wrote once!!

*** Opposition is true friendship. ***
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell William Blake

Anyone who apposes me and can debate a point and run a convincing plea for their side directly causes me to think. For instance the socialism vs. capitalism debate between E and me…

E went through a period where she was libertarian and I went through a period where I was a communist. We would brazenly argue about this during science class with no regard for our poor teacher who probably wished we were listening to her. Or at least discussing science.

She caused me to think more on that subject therefore I have a very convincing plea on the subject of socialism. E never apposes me on purely philosophical points.

Or, as we all know, theological points.

I wonder if E is an “I” person. She believes she is but has nothing to compare it to. Neither do I, so I am going to have to have faith in it or else I’ll never be able to assume anything. Maybe I’m becoming an “I” person. Or maybe I am. Or maybe I’ll never be.

This is gibberish to me. I have no clue what an “I” person is. How much you wanna bet it has something to do with E.M. Forster, though?

Only E.M. Forster knows.

He’d been dead for 22 years at this point. How was he supposed to know?

There’s an abrupt change of topic here to talk about how my dad doesn’t label Christmas presents and then forgets who they belong to.

I end the entry by describing an interaction we had with a “young, studious substitute.”

The conversation began with E criticizing (they always start that way), then on to him asking us questions and learning a bit about us. It was all rather interesting until, and E goes into this more in depth, he began to sort of lecture us, to give us advice. Until then we had felt as equals.

I think this is what the kids call mansplaining. But since he was an adult and we were fifteen, it was probably more adultmansplaining. Either way, this sucks. This is not the kind of adult I want to be.

During this conversation, E wrote on the next page of my journal:

“Sometimes you don’t know whether to slit your own wrists or the wrists of those around you.”


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