journal of a twelve year old

In my journal as a twelve year old, I made lists of goals: "stop biting nails/100 ade average/betterdancer/better at sports/control PMS/get new shoes/get $100".
I quoted Operation Ivy and my brother's basketball plaque on the same page.
I wrote a poem about a blind squirrel and a saga about a hunter killed by his own dogs who haunted the woods every full moon.
I was twelve and I wrote about things that troubled me. A lot of those things still trouble me.
Sometimes I want to drink a beer before I go into work. Some days I do just that.
I juggle cars like other people juggle tennis balls.
I'm doing a good job of controlling my hormone levels. I told my fiancee that its his job to clean the bathtub. I didn't kick the dog even though I really wanted to, and I didn't switch the laundry even though it has been damp in the washer for more than a day.
I spent yesterday with my mother.
I'll probably have to wash those clothes again.
It's nice to remember when recess was the most harrowing part of my day. I had to squeeze every bit of those twenty minutes catching up with my friends before being locked up in the classroom again and contenting myself by making faces at them from across the room.
I used to play football with the boys just to prove a point. The truth is though, that I really just didn't know how to play.
The only thing that's different now, since I was twelve, is my best imaginary friend, Clark Elehway.
Here's to you, Clark.

My mother's poem, which i helped her "workshop"

Look
at my hands
I didn't know I was so old.


Look at my hands--
I did not know
I was so old.