Dear Diary, Nothing seems to be going old Alice’s way these days. Sometimes, I just take a step back and wonder why on Earth I even try anymore. Between my job, my love-life and my novel, I just don’t think it’s worth it. I’m just so darn frustrated, you know, Diary? Of course you do… you’re covered in pink faux fur. You keep all of your wisdom in the rhinestones, don’t you? Well, you don’t have to share all of your secrets with me, but don’t keep it all bottled up inside until you’re going to burst… and are ready to quit your job… and question your very existence to a little frilly book that you’ve had since the eighth grade. Please, Diary, don’t let it go that far. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be an astronaut… an astronaut, Diary. Now I feel more like an astronut! Not funny, huh? I used to be funny. I used to tell jokes. But this is what those damn kids are doing. This is what they want. Sometimes I just think “Hey, Pinkerton, you’re a high school chemistry teacher… so what!” I could have been anything, but now I spend my days talking about Avogadro and his darn number! How about 6.022 times 10 to the kiss my butt, you old bastard! And what’s so hard about that? Why do I have the same kids coming to bother me every day at Conference period? Don’t they need a cup of coffee as much as I do? Those suck-ups! I hate this school and I hate all of them. I’m only here because of the free apartment, but I’d rather live in a cardboard box then spend another night in Nathan Hale! At least on the street no one would wake me up in the middle of the night to go to Isham with an eyeliner-related stabbing incident. Surely there I wouldn’t have to spend hours trying to explain to some teenage girl why her life-sized oil painting of Chad Michael Murray is a fire hazard. And Rabbit Pond smells. This gig is getting kind of old, Diary. This might not be the job for me. When, oh when will my prince charming come, Diary? I put myself out there, or at least I try. I like to think that I’m quite a catch. I look great in goggles, and I smell like chalk a lot… some people like the smell of chalk, don’t they? I’ve heard that the dust is one of natures most powerful aphrodisiacs. I just don’t understand why I can’t find a man. It’s not like I’m sexually inept. I’ve chaperoned Ryley dances… I know how to dry hump for multiple consecutive hours! And it’s not like I’m starved for possible date options. He could pick me up at 5:15 and we could go over to Commons for dinner. Feel like a salad? We’ve got a whole bar of ‘em. Want a hot option? Nothing’s more romantic than a steaming hot plate of shepherd’s pie. Grab a plastic cup full of Cocoa Puffs and you’re on your way. From there it’s only a short walk to… the Day Student Lounge. We could get cozy on the couches and watch CNN on mute for hours! It sounds like a dream date to me, but most don’t call back. Eventually we would probably mix it up and walk down to Yama, Bertucci’s, Starbucks, Bertucci’s, My Brother’s Place, Yama or even…Yama. I don’t understand it, but this dating situation is not working out. I can’t take any more rejection, Diary! I am trying my best… maybe I should take them to…Polk?! Oh, Diary… I just need to get laid. It’s been a long time coming, but I’m ready to try another publisher for my novel “Windex and the Chocolatey Smudge.” Apparently Knopf Inc. has no use for a Proust-esque description of a dirty counter top. One day they will realize that I have written the greatest house cleaning-based coming-of-age story ever produced. One day. You know what that editor said to me, Diary? No, no, do you know what he asked me? He asked me if I knew how to read. Then he asked me if “chocolatey” is a real word. When will things turn around, Diary? Why won’t you tell me you furry piece of— Love, Alice C. Pinkerton
