I was your typical miserable teenager. So when I stumbled upon a diary from 2002 I couldn’t help but recoil in fear of what my twisted young mind emptied out on to those pages.
I am leaning out the window of my childhood bedroom. My hips are propped on the frame and my left hand is planted on the garage roof below. My right hand is holding a cigarette. I know that at any moment my mother may burst in and catch me smoking. If she does, she’ll probably slam the window shut; trapping my upper half outside and leaving my lower half exposed for a good ol’ fashioned spanking. But that’s just the risk I’ll have to take right now.
My least favorite time was when two men were performing sexual favors on each other. What they were doing didn’t bother me as much as the fact that they weren’t listening to me. They were in a dark corner at the back of the room, making sure third base was thoroughly satisfied before they’d leave the bar to hit that home run we all so desperately crave.
Dear Mr. Heckler,
I first would like to apologize for not succumbing to your requests. As a comedienne and entertainer, it is my priority that every one who sees me perform – whether by choice or not – enjoy themselves as much as possible.