It's too damn early for this.

Can't sleep. Partially because the dog woke me up, partially because I had a dream about an age old high school insult. Whatever. I want it out of my head.

NPR is doing this project where they're collecting scans of diaries. And I figure since I've been keeping a diary since the 10th grade, I'll bet there's something in there that might be worthy.

Not that my diary is or was all that profound. I'd like to think there were some glimmers of hope in there for me both as a thinker and as a writer, but for the most part, they're the stunted ramblings of a delusional boy-crazy introvert. And I say delusional because I honestly believe I thought I was an extrovert and/or didn't think school caused me any anxiety. These days, I like to think of middle and high school as one long panic attack.

A couple years ago I tried to transcribe my diaries into one long word document, but I didn't get past the first few pages of the first diary. It wasn't because I lost interest. Well, in a matter of speaking, I did. But it stemmed from being so disgusted with how naive I was that I couldn't keep working on it. And the spelling and grammar issues. Holy Lord.

Truth is, I find enough fault with myself. I didn't want or need to review a million reasons why I was a social leper during the latter half of my K-12 public education career and the stupid situations I dealt with in college. For f*ck's sake, I can't stand hanging out with snot-nosed know-it-all undergrad students NOW. Why relive that supposed awesomeness?

But for some reason, I still have them. All. Every diary, from the first one written in a Mead spiral bound notebook (light yellow, 3 subject, wide ruled with the dividers torn out and a little unicorn on the corner of the cover), the later ones I abandoned either because I already had the next book and I was too excited to finish the old one or because something stupid happened and I wanted to dump the old one so I could get on with my life. Then there's the one I'm working on now that hasn't been written in in months. (Westley and I were musing on that; we talk to each other, or write it in a blog, or write it out on facebook if it's not that important, and purge our demons that way.) All of them but the last reside in a nondescript box in an undisclosed location in plain sight. I'm brilliant like that.

I always thought I'd keep them because some poor soul, some day, might want to read them. Not until I'm dead, of course. I've already suffered the consequences of letting friends and idiots read one while I've been alive. I learned this (repeatedly):

NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES FROM LETTING SOMEONE READ YOUR DIARY.

Yeah, I'm seriously starting to question my intelligence, too. But remember: One Long Panic Attack. Just keep it in the back of your mind.

Did you know I wrote some of my diary in Runic so people couldn't read it? I got paranoid.

But I'll let them read it after I'm dead. I figure that way, I'll be too occupied to give a crap about how stupid/broken/panicked/retarded they'll inevitably think I am.

Not that I should have to wait until I'm dead to not give a crap about what people think or say. But that's not a topic for here. That's for my diary.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Sometime, maybe Sunday when I have time, I'm going to go through that crappy old box and dig up some visually interesting fodder. I'll scan those b*tches, and upload them both here and to that project. And no, there won't be anything that can come back to bite me. I have Photoshop and I'm not afraid to use it. To blur out names and stuff.

Ooo. I'm tired again.

Just in time for the sun to come up.

And for oatmeal to sound appetizing.

Yeah.