April 17, 1994
When Diana called she got all mad at me just because I "talk too much about Patrick". In fact, I'm not even sure I like him anymore...just his eyes. But I THINK maybe I do like him. I'm confused!
Yesterday was so awesome! Diana came over for a sleepover which was great. We played with Houdini [my hampster], we made halfway square (delicious) we watched Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman while having hot chocolate and popcorn and best of all we started making this thing called "A Day in the Life of Corey" Diana took pictures of me getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, eating breakfast, getting the newspaper, reading the Funnies, going to school, and lots more. When they're developed we're going to cut them out and put them on poster board. It should be fun.
I love being out here sitting on the tree trunk writing to you. I feel truly at peace.
YAY! Diana finally calls me on my BS! Although it does not seem to have an actual effect on my love of myself. "A Day in the Life of Corey"??? I mean, how did I talk her into the validity of this project? Obviously I know what the appeal was for me-- what could possibly be more interesting/artistic than a series of photographs documenting my exciting life (reading the funnies???) But I must have pulled some serious Tom Sawyer-ing to convince Diana this would also be fun for her.
I wonder if I really like Patrick's eyes of if that line about liking them was from some movie or book. Because honestly, I don't think I ever actually got physically close enough to him to even know what color his eyes were.
In any case, why do I keep thinking maybe I don't like him? I don't remember this confusion, only the hardcore infatuation. Although I guess it proves relationships are not ever actually simple. Or, at least mine aren't.
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Holy CRAP we loved that show. I think Diana and I were actually middle aged women. So not hip.
Side note: this entry marks the beginning of my second journal, the flower journal. Pretty much looks like wall paper or an old woman's house dress. Further supporting the notion that Diana and I were secretly middle aged.