“I’ve had cyber-sex before,” my 10-year-old cousin casually stated while flipping her butt-length ponytail from one shoulder to the other. I was 9 at the time and my mind was blown. Someone I knew was having sex — and apparently, it was so out-of-this-world that it belonged in virtual reality. Read the rest of this entry »
In the final installment of The Dear Diaries I graduate and “hug a lot of people and guys”. I also work up the courage to hug my long-time crush. Thank you to all of those who read these silly things. I hope you found them as funny as I did. Read the rest of this entry »
In the fifth installment of The Dear Diaries I survive my own death threats and find a graduation dress. I make yet another hair decision I can’t undo and I promise to “write later when sad”.
In the fourth installment of The Dear Diaries I still struggle with the spelling of tired and find a way to ensure neither of my metaphorical children will ever have sex. P.S. The best part is the P.S. Read the rest of this entry »
In the third installment of “The Dear Diaries” series I discuss my first boyfriend and what happened to us.
In the second installment of The Dear Diaries I bitch about my mom not letting me go to the mall and discuss a raunchy dream I had. I have yet to master how to properly spell “tired”.
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.
You really shouldn’t leave 5-year-olds on the roof of your car but my dad needed to get the shot. There I lay, one hand gripping the edge of his white suzuki, the other gripping a milk jug filled with water. My cousins began pushing the car back and forth, my uncle yelled “Action” and I began to make it rain.
Jason expectedly died earlier in the day and I was furious with myself for crying so much. I could tell my tears were making Allen nervous. I wish it were more socially appropriate to carry on a conversation while crying. Read the rest of this entry »
I was 16 when I tried to commit suicide. I remember standing on the edge of the roof of my family’s home, looking past my toes when my mom stepped out for a cigarette. She made eye contact with me, realized what I was trying to do and yelled:
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.
MARINAvsWriting 