2004-10-01

Well, after waiting forever for a review from that sweetreviews thing, I finally went somewheres else. I'm sure they have their own complications that make them unable to review at this time, but my insecurities could not wait. My own opinion is never enough and I need constant validation from other people. Why?
That's probably way too complicated for only one entry. Anyway, got myself a review. I guess I'd assign my diary a D-minus if my score were translated to a letter grade. They weren't too thrilled. And, since I know they don't have time to check back with us, I'll answer here. Why? I just feel like answering those things I've been charged with.

I'm not that upset, really. I think they only read the last few entries, judging by how their comments only pertained to the Big B.J. Blowout, so I keep telling myself that they didn't have my body of work to judge. I'm soooo sure it would have been different if they read all about those other fascinating things that.... I keep forgetting how boring my life is. Oh, well.

One thing I don't get is this comment: Sometimes you come across as an older person, other times you seem almost childlike in your writing.

Childlike? Seriously, my grammar and spelling are almost impeccable except when, like now, I'm posting half-drunk. And I never think I come across like I'm twelve, really. Just think of how often I talk about Harry Potter... Hey, wait a sec. Well, whaddaya know.

Actually, I think they mean childish. Which I readily admit to. I'm just not ashamed, really. I don't believe I need to act or write a certain way to show my age. Age is very subjective in some ways. As a teen, I was an eighty-year-old woman at times and a ten-year-old at others. Through the years, with the help of large amounts of alcohol and some very small amounts of sexual promiscuity, I've added a kind of late teens, girl-gone-wild era to my ages, and then the wisened feminist man-hater, and, our old favorite, the pseudo soccer mom who worries whether she's already giving her young charges complexes.

Went off track (I am, after all, me). What I mean to say is I'm often blindly enthusiastic about things. I even come off that way live- as in not in text. Fannie- Girl, you know from experience. You had the phone April. That quality often comes off a little childish. And you can love it or hate it. Though that... should I call it hyperactivity?... makes me seem childish, it also gives me a certain joie de vivre that gets me through my days. Love it or hate it, it's a big part of me.

There's also the charge that there's no emotional depth. Seriously, got a couple of those self-analytical entries that over-plumb the depths of my insecurities. Doubt they got read (though I understand, I guess. How many years are these people expected to be reading these things?). But mea culpa, in a way. There are more light-hearted entries than there are thinky explorations of meeeee.

I started this thing so I could laugh at myself. It's therapeutic to me and, I hope, to others. I want to paint my world a little funnier and try to coax a laugh out of some total strangers along the way. My diary is probably closer to a play-by-play commentary on April's life than what a diary ought to be. Then again, it's kind of subjective.

So I guess me big response to the review is: I'm glad to see what a complete outsider (like not one of my aunts... and, oh yes, some of them read it. Right, Aunt Lisa? Get back to work, you lay-about) thinks of my diary. It's good it was done. But I'm not changing a thing. I see what they mean about the layout and all that, But this template shit was hard for me and I'm too lazy to touch it ever again. As far as me being more emotional... you gotta dig under the multi-layered self- deprecation. It's all in here. Except how it's like a riddle. And If you find it, I'll mail you cookies. I'm not even kidding.

And for those who want to know how my second date with Jeff the Underwhelming Engineer... He was still not impressing me. But a damn fine kisser, again. End result: both of my arms hurt. What dirty thing could that mean? Is it dirty at all? What could she possibly mean by that? Well, I ain't telling. So nyah.