September 1st, 1975

Dear Oliver,

Her name is Elvira. The girl in the parking lot. I hadn’t noticed before but we actually share a lot of classes. I ran into her on the way to a psychology seminar and apologized for staring the other day. She said it was fine and even apologized to me for what her friend did in the library. Apparently, his name is Ollie. What a funny coincidence, right?

Anyway, we actually sat together during the seminar. Don’t get any ideas, we only sat together because the room only had so many seats and we were the last to arrive. I feel kind of bad, honestly. She looked really uncomfortable. We talked a little before Professor Barlow arrived. She was avoiding looking at me but for some reason, she kept trying to make conversation. Fuck, it was so awkward I wanted to tear my own skin off. It wasn’t her fault; I think I just creeped her out. Apparently, they had to close the entire floor for cleaning. I don’t know why. We had to move to a different classroom for the day. The desks were too small so me and Elvira kept brushing elbows. I’m twice her size and a complete stranger who stalked her in a parking lot. Any girl would be reserved. Especially because when I’m stressed, which is often, I break out in acne around my chin. It looks like a gross, puss-filled beard. I’d be uncomfortable staring at my ugly mug too.

Now I feel like I have to apologize again but that will probably just make her even more uncomfortable. She was actually really nice. Her voice is hard to describe. Deeper than you’d think it’d be but still very pleasant. Like a cat purring. I bet she’d be a great singer.

Do you think I should try talking to her again? Maybe if a bring her flowers? But that’s probably too forward. I’m apologizing for being an ass not asking her on a date.

I’ll see how I’m feeling tomorrow.

Father would call me a bitch for obsessing about this so much. But he thinks smacking a woman on the ass is how you say ‘hello’ so who cares what he thinks. I doubt that ever worked on anyone. Not even mom.

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My mom called this morning. It was okay. She asked how I was doing. It was a little weird. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop but she just listened and then wished me a good day and hung up. Didn’t hear Father in the background. Weird.

Anyway, aside from all that, nothing else is new. School is good. The library is good. It’s only been two days, not much could have happened between then and now.

You know, I’m actually having a really hard time writing right now. There’s this light outside my window that’s just bugging the hell out of me. It’s nighttime, so I’m not sure what it is. Probably a streetlight. It’s distracting. I’m going to close the window.

Okay, where was I? I guess I was nowhere. Just like in real like, huh? I’m going nowhere! Sorry, I’m just being an idiot. It’s been a long day. I should go to bed. Goodnight, Oliver.

I’m still awake. It’s been four hours since I stopped writing but I can’t sleep. I need to get up at 6:00 am tomorrow and it’s already 3:20. I feel like I’m forgetting something and it’s bugging me. Was I supposed to do something before bed? I wrote nothing about doing something. I probably shouldn’t have started writing since that’s just going to make me more awake but I feel like my mind is growing. That sounds ridiculous when I read it back. It’s more like my brain won’t shut up. Tentacle thoughts slinking in my brain. It’s annoying.

So, I’m just sitting in bed writing. Maybe if I write down all the thoughts jumbling around in my head, then I’ll tire myself out. My bedside light’s a little too yellow. Like a tiny ugly sun. I can hear it blinking. That’s probably what’s keeping me up, the blinking. Actually no, that’s stupid. The light was off when I was trying to sleep. The light is too big for the side table. It’s probably going to fall off the stand at some point. I should move it.

My hand hurts. You don’t realize how much writing you have to do in school. I have a bruise on my pointer finger from holding my pencil too hard.

I really want to turn off the light but then I can’t write. And if I can’t write then I have to try to sleep and after four hours of that, I don’t think I ever want to sleep again. Do you ever feel like that? Like you’re so tired you don’t want to sleep? Like even being unconscious is too much effort? It feels like that right now.

You know, it’s actually kinda hot in my room. That must be what’s keeping me up. I sweat like a pig, especially in summer. If I take the blanket off my bed and just use the sheets, I should be more comfortable. Yeah, I’m gonna do that.

Okay, I’m gonna try to salvage some semblance of sleep before my morning shift. Goodnight, Oliver. Again.