I don't know how much I can write tonight because, for the first time in my life, I'm shitface. I only had about a pitcher at The Atlantic, but I'm gone. I don't even know how I made it home tonight. Elliot stopped me while I was still going strong, and lucky thing he did, or I might be dead now. I hope I can make it to work tomorrow. Denise was there tonight, and she gave me the cold shoulder, but she had her hand on Elliot's leg, the guy she told me she supposedly hates. I don't know what I said tonight, but I bet I hear it tomorrow, if Elliot remembers.
The girls lost (I don't remember the score) (you see how I'm writing-the room is spinning). We went to see Steve afterward-then to The Atlantic. I like getting drunk, but it's too risky. I can't write anymore. If I remember anything else about today, I'll write it tomorrow.
P.S.-Drunken Denise told me I was rotten tonight. Well fuck her.
I included a scan of the nearly illegible journal entry for the record. On our last visit down to Mass., I took Val to The Atlantic for a drink to show her where I used to get tanked. It's changed a bit in 30 years. The lounge used to be separate from the bar, but now there's just a half wall separating the two parts. They also added a couple of pool tables, and now serve sandwiches and bar food. They still have those plates of cheese and crackers, though. When you're drinking beer by the pitcher, saltines and cheddar taste great!
Obviously, by her words and actions, Denise was a tramp and a slut. I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't see this at the time. A 22 year old single mother who leaves her kid with someone for the night so she can go out drinking. I was unbelievably naive.
You need to scan in a picture of your regular entries now, so people who aren't familiar with your near-flawless penmanship can see the difference.
ReplyDeleteThe sad thing about this is that my journals from this age read in a very similar fashion, albeit with more talk about CDs than 8-tracks and far less drinking and softball.
Still, the wanting of a girl you cannot have always seems to fit the theme of any teenage journal.