So it's probably a good thing I've gotten you accustomed to what I was like at fifteen before I found this unsent letter.

Okay, I have to assume it's unsent. I want to assume it's unsent. I'm going to at least pretend it's unsent, and ask you to do the same. Because the truth is it's a print-out from a dot-matrix printer, which means I wrote it on my Atari ST, which means I probably printed it twice, and gave one to the intended recipient. And then kept one physical copy for myself, because apparently I didn't trust my computer's hard drive enough to keep it safe. I'm sure it's not because I did something smart like delete it. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from several embarrassing situations with that computer is that I was the only person in the house who knew how to use it.

Behold what might be the most embarrassing thing I've ever found from my past.

5. Feb., 1991

[BOY'S ACTUAL NAME]-

I'm practicing my typing. Told my dad that it is for homework. I know that [SOME BOY] will be calling soon. [GIRL FRIEND] tells me that I should give him a chance, that if I don't like him after we go out on Friday, then I can just forget him.

Here's all that I remember about this boy I'm talking about. 1. His favorite band was Rush. He would talk about it ALL THE TIME. All the time. To this day, I've never listened to a Rush song, because of this guy. Oh, and he talked about it to me over the phone, because we only sort-of met in real life once. 2. He told me he "loved [his] guitar so much that if it had a hole [he] would fuck it." 3. This date I'm talking about here was to a Taco Bell.

Seeing as how I have to double if I am to go out with him--

My parents didn't let me date at fifteen. I had to make it sound like it was a bunch of friends all going out for tacos. Which, I guess really, it was.

-- then [GIRL FRIEND] will be there, and she told me that she can always tell when I'm not crazy over a guy (like [GUY I SORT OF DATED FOR ABOUT A WEEK] and [ANOTHER GUY I SORT OF DATED BUT WASN'T REALLY SURE IF WE WERE DATING AND LATER HE CLAIMED WE MOST CERTAINLY NEVER DID DATE AT ALL AND ONE DAY YEARS LATER AT A DENNY'S HE PRETENDED HE DIDN'T KNOW WHO I WAS]) and she said I won't get into anything I can't handle.

I like how I need my best friend to tell me if I really like a guy or not.

But from what I've heard, he's a real girl freak, and a real sex maniac kind of guy and I know that if I do end up going out with him, I may end up losing my virginity to him, which is exactly what I don't want to do.

By the way, this Taco Bell date never happened. I think after I wrote this letter I might have immediately called this sex maniac girl freak and cancelled, so that I didn't accidentally lose my virginity in a Taco Bell parking lot in a car with all my friends. I mean, that's what happens on television, you guys. How was I supposed to assume it would be any different for me? Then I'd get pregnant because it was my first time and I'd lose that scholarship to Harvard and I'd end up working at that Taco Bell.

I did end up working at that Taco Bell. For exactly two days. But that's another story.

You know how important this whole deal is to me and what scares the hell out of me is that I almost went ahead and did it with [OMITTED] (except that he was "inconsiderate").

If I have to guess what I mean by that, I probably mean that he didn't want to use a condom, so I said no.

I know now that it would have all been for shit, and I probably would have ended up getting hurt. I don't know, I promised [OMITTED] I'd save myself for him, but the way things look, I may be destined to be a virgin for life.

I think you know LP enough by now to know where this is going.

I really don't think I'll ever see him again, and even if I do, I know he'll be a different person, one that I may no longer love. I mean, I'll love him, I'll always love [OMITTED] -- when I do fall in love with someone it usually is forever, actually it is forever--

Man, where did I pick up this line? And did I really think it would work? On BOYS?!

--which is why I usually put up with so much shit from guys that I love: I did it with [OMITTED] and I did it with [JERK WHO TOLD ALL MY FRIENDS THAT I AM A PRUDE].

People get pissed at me, "Why do you let him do that to you?" "How can you even speak to him, much less care about him?"

Those of you who know me in real life might be going, "Are you fucking kidding me? I just said that to her like, LAST YEAR."

[This message is brought to you by Change.
Change: People can't.]

And saying, "Because I love him," really doesn't count for much in other's eyes. But I moved away from [OMITTED], and [OMITTED] moved away from me.

That's a very dramatic way of saying that latter boy dumped me.

And I am really glad, because I know that if I still lived in [BLANK], I'd never look at another guy even if [OMITTED] was screwing every girl in the state (Even though it's probably not possible, seeing as how he is still a virgin as well).

What am I doing here? I'm like, painting this romantic abusive relationship, while still trying to protect what I imagine is the reputation of this other guy I "promised" myself to, so that this guy I'm clearly trying to lose my virginity to would know that my forever-love is reserved for guys who understand how precious and important virginity loss is.

THIS is why I don't have any memory of Chemistry class. Because my head was filled with this. What a waste, LP. You could have been learning Spanish. Which you actually need and would help every single day.

And if [OMITTED JERK] stayed here--

Oh, maybe he DID move.

-- I'd probably forgive the son of a bitch and still be crying every night wondering when he's going to love me again. I know that all [JERK] wanted me for was sex, I'm not stupid and I'm not blind. But sometimes my heart and my head don't agree, actually most of the time my heart and my head don't agree. OKAY, SO THEY NEVER AGREE. I LIVE BY FOLLOWING MY HEART WHICH ALWAYS GETS ME IN TROUBLE BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS WRONG AND ALWAYS HURTS ME BUT I CAN'T HELP IT BECAUSE I'M A HOPELESS ROMANTIC AND I'VE ALWAYS WANTED SOMEONE TO ACTUALLY BE IN LOVE WITH ME BECAUSE I THINK IT WOULD BE A KIND OF INTERESTING EXPERIENCE BUT I WOULDN'T KNOW BECAUSE NO ONE LOVES ME FOR LONGER THAN TWO WEEKS AND NO ONE EVER WILL.

Oh, this is actually getting rough, you guys. I mean, put that all-caps on a t-shirt and all -- both sides -- but I'm starting to be truly embarrassed.

I'LL BE THE WORLD'S OLDEST VIRGIN, AND THE WORLD'S BIGGEST LOSER WHO NEVER HAD ANYONE TELL HER THAT HE LOVED HER AND MEANT IT. Okay? I've said it. There. It's out. And from what I've heard about what's-his-face, I'm just going to end up liking the guy, maybe end up loving the guy, and then be screwed over. Again.

I'm developing a very negative attitude towards men in general. I think that this is not good. I mean the only guys that I care about in this whole fucking world are [OMITTED], [HOMEROOM BOY], and you.

Yes. Yes, I did. Yes, I did just slaughter a quote from Some Kind of Wonderful and yes I did think of myself as Mary Stuart Masterson's character without the drums. BOYS WERE MY DRUMS. You guys. Boys were my drums. (And books.)

I apologize in advance for this next section.

And I've fallen in love with all three of them and all three of them have called me the "F" word. I'm a friend. I've memorized the fucking speech.

"Oh, I really like you and everything, but I think that, oh, um... God, this is hard, uh... fuck. I feel like a dick. See, I like you. I like you a lot, don't get me wrong. Oh...shit. See, I like you too much. Do you understand? I-think-that-this-is-moving-too-fast-and-I'd-like-to-just-be-friends. Oh, did I hurt you? Oh, shit. The last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt you. Believe me. I feel like a dick. I'm sorry. Are you okay? Dude, are you crying? Because, don't, man, I'm not worth it. I'm not worth this. I'm scum. I'm a dick. I'm sorry. Are you still my buddy?"

I am now one hundred percent positive that I gave a print-out (A PRINT-OUT!) of this letter to this boy, who said some version of this speech to me, albeit in probably an even more awkward way, as an attempt to let him know... what, that he hurt me? As if he's still reading at this point. WE ARE ON PAGE THREE.

Oh, God, you guys. This next part. It's amazing.

Yeah, your fucking buddy till the fucking end of time, that's me. Just call me Fred. We'll get together on Friday's sometime (if you aren't too busy with some real girl, that is) and we'll go bowling, down a couple of brewski's, pick up a couple of cutsey dames, treat them like shit, pick our asses, watch a football game, eat until we puke, light our farts, take a shit, you know, buddy stuff. Yep that's me, old buddy, old pal. [sic] [sic] [sic]

"Cutsey dames"!!!

(Ass-picking and fart-lighting aside, it's not really that bad of night. Fred sounds like fun.)

I really don't think that this is worth it anymore, all of this love shit. Love sucks. It's hurts. [sic] It rips out everything inside you, sticks it in a blender on puree, and then shoves the bloody massive pulp back inside your soul to just sit there and rot. Love sucks, and I'm not going to take it anymore. I'm giving up guys - I know I've said it before, I said it to [MY FRIEND] many times, but this time, I'm going to do it. I'm man-free. Ice Pam.

Yes. Yes, I did. Yes, I did just slaughter a Lloyd Dobler quote from Say Anything.... And I think, yes, you're right, there was also some kind of attempt at a quote from Network. Can you feel my pain NOW?!

Nothing can penetrate this heart. Not all of the roses in the world. Not all of the bottles of rain. Not for all of the kisses, not for all of the sweet nothings, not for all of the "I love you"'s that one can say in a lifetime. It probably could feel worse than this and I don't want to risk that chance, so if I just stop it now and say fuck it all, then maybe I'll spare myself some pain. I doubt it, because right about now I feel like someone has placed my insides on hot coals, and my stomach is desparately [sic] trying to jump off. No, I feel fine. No, I feel fucking great. I could live without guys. Who needs them? Men, shmen.

You guys. LP has lost her mind. Oh, my God. She clearly drank way too many bottles of rain.

None of them really care about me, anyway. Yeah, I'm sure of it. Definately. [sic] Yep. Uh-huh......Boy it's lonely being guyless.

WHAT AM I DOING? I sent this to someone! Someone read this! This is insanity.

But that's okay, because I'm ICE PAM. Heart of ice. Soul stone cold. I will never melt again. Don't look at me like that, you know what those puppy-dog eyes do to me.

WHO AM I TALKING TO? WHY IS FIFTEEN SO STUPID?

Ah, but not anymore, not ICE PAM. I'm impermeable. Not even you will make me like guys. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Little Pam Life Lesson #43: When writing a love letter discussing whether or not you will ever find someone who will love you longer than two weeks so that you can lose your virginity to someone who respects you enough to wait for that all-important third week, it's best to close your multiple-personality rants with a well-known SNL catchphrase coined by Dana Carvey with his George Bush impersonation.

Fucking. DORK.

Maybe this new outlook on guys would be a lot easier if I convinced myself a little more. This should be easy. Hold on, let me slap myself (I don't bruise when I do it).

This boy had a thing about giving me bruises, because it takes so little for me to get one. For years. He never slapped me. I'm really just explaining to you that I'm making a joke here, but it's funny that I'm acting like there's something I could do in life that wouldn't result in me getting bruised. That's simply untrue. I have a bruise on my wrist right now from this past Monday, when I foolishly and recklessly decided to open a door. The door didn't close on me. I opened it. And hurt myself. Do you know how hard that is to do?

Look how [JERK] treated you. Look how [OMITTED] treated you, he left you for [ANOTHER GIRL] during the course of Dick Tracy.

Until this moment, I believe I had successfully blocked that out of my memory. It's back now. And at least now I understand why I know I saw that movie in a theater, but have absolutely no recollection of a single minute of it.

I could go into explaining precisely how a fifteen-year old girl gets left for another girl during a 7pm screening of a Warren Beatty/Madonna film, but I think whatever pathetic teen tragedy you could imagine will be close to accurate, if not exactly what happened.

There's a pattern of boy-related sad things happening to LP during screenings of movies. It's why I can never re-watch Kid n' Play's classic comedy "House Party 2."

Look how [U2 SONG BOY] treated you -- 23 hours before he wanted to be your buddy. Look how [OMITTED] treated you -- you were only one of three that weekend and he at least wrote letters to the other two... true they were the exact same letters, but at least he thought of them afterwards.

It's really one of the meanest things that ever happened to me by boys. You know why this happened? Because I threw a party at my house while my parents were out of town. I didn't even throw a party, really, I let my friend invite boys over because I was too scared to tell her I was too scared to have boys over because I could get in trouble. But U2 Song Boy was one of them, and I had to know why he didn't love me anymore, and maybe he would fall in love with me again. But at one point one of the other boys awkwardly started kissing me and we made out for a little while.

Later, when I'm in my kitchen, U2 Song Boy comes up to me and goes, "Did you make out with [BLANK]?"

And I was all bold and sassy, so empowered with the flush of someone desiring me, of how I successfully had moved on from U2 Boy's sudden, confusing abandonment. I went, "Yes, I did."

And he said, "DAMMIT. You just made me lose the bet. He's three to my two. Thanks a fucking lot."

The other girls Not U2-Boy kissed that weekend found out about the bet, and he wrote them letters of apology. I knew about that because I watched them read their letters in the cafeteria. He was stupid enough to think they wouldn't tell each other about their letters. Dumbass wrote both of them the same letter, which is how they found out that they had both made out with the same boy in the same weekend.

But he didn't write me a letter.

And for the record, my parents found out about the party because my little sister accidentally told them. And I was grounded for a month. Because I ALWAYS GET IN TROUBLE.

Look what [OMITTED] did to you, okay, so you weren't hurt by [OMITTED] because you really didn't like him anyway, but still...Look how [HOMEROOM BOY] dropped you before you even got to do anything with him. Look how [BOY I'M WRITING THIS LETTER TO BUT FOR SOME REASON I PUT HIS NAME HERE SO THAT I'M TALKING ABOUT HIM TO HIM. I AM A MASSIVE DORK.] changed his mind for reasons you still don't understand. And if you don't stop this bullshit soon, you are going to be singing the same song about [TACO BELL BOY].

I'm sorry I'm going on about this. Probably either boring you or pissing you off.

And if that line doesn't give you flashbacks to your own high school notes, I don't know what will.

This just isn't the kind of thing I'd talk to [MY BEST GIRL FRIEND] about because she says, "Cheer up, Pamie." because she's in love and making me sick. Since you probably won't talk to me at all about it because you never seem to talk about my serious notes, I assume you are just going to do the same, kind of act like you read a story or something. Well, it's not a story, dammit. These are my feelings, here is my soul, pitifully dripping off of the pages of this disgustingly stupid and boring letter. And I only wrote it because I need your help.

Pam

I do realize that in this letter I told you that I love you, but I pretty much consider that subject an entirely different letter.

And... SCENE!

How about that ending, folks, huh? You got to admit, that totally surprised you. Oh, that makes me laugh every time I read it. What a post script.

I have to admit, I am not sure what kind of help LP is asking for. Advice on Taco Bell Boy? A volunteer to take her virginity? An admission of love? Someone to talk her out of giving up on men?

That is one mother of a letter. I really wish I could say it was unsent. I do. But I just don't think it was. I bet I waited days for him to write back or call or something, and he probably never did. Most likely he didn't even read it, because who would read that craziness? I'd be like, "Oh, that letter? Uh, yeah, it got taken up by the bus driver and she threw it away."

Which is why LP was all crafty. "Oh, no problem! I SAVED IT TO MY HARD DRIVE. Here is another copy! W.B.S.! Lylas! But not really, because I love you like a soul mate! So, it's really more Lylas-m!"

I'm not sure if have any more of LP's unsent letters. At first I gave myself a little credit, assuming I'd matured enough to move on from writing these things. But I think what happened was I turned sixteen and had one boyfriend for a while, and then I got into theatre class. And then all drama started happening in the moment, if you know what I mean. I nerded-out like, to their faces with thinly-veiled monologues and improvisation!

I'm so glad I'm not fifteen anymore. I'm glad you're not fifteen anymore. I'm glad boys aren't fifteen anymore. Sure, there are times when we regress back into our sophomore-year selves, but isn't it better now, when we have cars that we can drive away in, and money we can spend to get on planes to go far, far away, and like, not just a room, but our own homes. We can slam that front door and write in our diaries and do whatever we want because nobody can ground us anymore.

Nobody can ground us anymore!

Shit, that reminds me. I've got to pay that traffic ticket.

Quick aside: I feel the need to explain that once you join roller derby your life splits right in two. You have the life you know, the one with your friends and family and loved ones, and then there's this other life that your friends and family and loved ones are completely baffled by. One where you have a second set of friends and family and loved ones, but these people all spend time physically harming each other. You spend an extraordinary amount of time with these people, and sometimes you never learn their real names. But that's not what I'm talking about here.

I'm talking about the same questions, in the same order, that I always get from a non-derby person, one who's familiar enough with the sport to ask me the questions they're excited about.

1. I heard you play roller derby. Is that true?
Yes. Why are you laughing?

2. What's your skate name?
May Q. Holla. Number Fifty Dollars.

3. What's your team name?

It's number three where I disappoint them. Every time.

I'm not on a team.

4. Oh. Are you new?

No. I started skating with LADD in May of '08.

5. Yikes.

Let me explain how the LA Derby Dolls work. You have five teams. It might be confusing from only watching Whip It!, but you don't get to walk in and just be on a team. I learned that this does happen for some of you derby girls out there, ones in smaller leagues. You show up and get to skate. I am jealous. Here you start in something called Fresh Meat. These are the rookie players. It's about thirty to fifty girls, where twice a week you meet to learn skills, like stopping and jumping and falling. (Yes, falling is a skill. I'm very good at it.) In Fresh Meat you learn how to play the game, and you get to play in the Baby Doll Brawls, which are exhibition games to show off how you're doing. To move up from Fresh Meat you have to try out for Subpool. Subpool is an even smaller group of skaters who are trying to prove themselves worthy of getting drafted for a team. They attend team practices and sometimes get picked to sub in bouts for players who are injured or unable to attend.

I can't tell you how many times I've been in Fresh Meat and seen a new girl start up all, "Hey, what's this roller derby thing? It seems cool." And then two months later she's kicking ass all over the track and then BAM. She's in subpool and on a team somehow before the end of the week. It can get frustrating.

These days the league is so large that now you have to tryout to get into Fresh Meat. You have to already know how to skate, how to stop, how to maneuver around the banked track before you even get to be in Fresh Meat! We started something called Derby Por Vida, classes for people who are looking to learn the basics, who are interested in either roller derby or the workout roller derby provides. You can go there just to have your gym be super hardcore, or to train yourself for the next Fresh Meat tryout date.

I was in the very last group of girls who could join Fresh Meat without having to tryout. I'm lucky that way, because I don't think I successfully nailed a t-stop until November of '09.

Subpool tryouts happen two or three times a year. It's a super-aggressive, seemingly non-stop skatefest of skills. You are watched by an evaluator as you execute all of your stops, falls, jumps, blocks, hits, and endurance. There's also a scrimmage portion where you must play every position, one jam after another, pretty much until your lungs want to pop. Afterward you sit with your evaluator, and she gives you feedback on how you're doing as a skater. You leave, exhausted, and about half an hour later your phone rings. Then you learn: are you being asked to subpool, or are you still a Fresh Meat?

I've tried out for subpool before. The first time I'd barely skated with the league, and I can't even imagine how ridiculous I must have looked out there. I remember Suzy Snakeyes being extremely kind, peppering her criticism with, "But you're a killer, and if you keep it up, one day everybody's going to be scared of you."

My special derby skill is a little embarrassing, honestly. It's that I don't give up. No matter how much I'm losing, no matter how many times I've tripped and fallen in a row, no matter how far behind I am from the rest of the pack, or struggling to gain lead jammer position, or even tripping over my own skates, from day one I've heard the trainers say, sometimes to each other when they think I can't hear: "That girl really doesn't give up."

There are times when it feels like a "special" medal. "I try my best!" It's always, "See? Holla keeps trying. She gets back up. Look, this time it even worked out so she won!" Yes, when you never give up, sometimes someone else does, and then you win. It's true. Sometimes when you never give up, you just end up being the last one standing. And sometimes, when you never give up, it shows everybody you really give a shit. I think that's something I've shown as a skater. I really do care out there. And I really, really, really don't want to suck.

It's because of school, I know. I just want the trainers to be proud of me. It's really no different than how I felt in the ninth grade. Coaches, managers, trainers -- I just want them to think, "Well, that May Q. Holla. She really listens. She tries really hard. I'm glad she's in my class."

My second subpool tryout was about nine months later. I'd been gone from the track for about a month due to work, which is a terrible mistake. You miss two practices and it's like you're skating in quicksand the next time you get up there. I remember being unable to catch my breath after the "20 laps in 5 minutes" portion, which is one of the first two skills. I was hurting during that tryout. My skate came untied twice. It was kind of a hot mess. They only took four girls into subpool that time. Out of twenty.

Then I got a little busy, and was focusing on the Baby Doll Brawls. I really liked playing in those games, training for a bout. It's so much fun to watch a team form, to play the sport, to improve by learning strategy, to find out what exactly I'm good at in the actual game. Because through all of this, I was still freaking lousy at a t-stop.

I skipped the next tryout, feeling I was a little too injured. And to be honest, I didn't think I was good enough for subpool. They say, "To be in subpool, you'd better be ready to play in an actual bout tomorrow. Can you do that?" I didn't think I could. Any encouragement I'd get from a fellow player I chalked up to them being nice. I was frustrated with the plateau I'd reached in my own game.

I don't know about anybody else, but my personal relationship with roller derby is constantly swinging from one extreme to the other.

I love this! I will never quit!
I am terrible at this. I should quit.
I can't quit! This is like a family to me!
A family of people who wish you would quit. You are terrible at this.
But I'm getting better! I'm not a quitter!
But I hurt. Everywhere.
But it's fun!
But it hurts. YOUR BODY CLICKS WHEN YOU MOVE.
But I'm getting better!
But it still hurts! Every time! You wake up every day in pain! Idiot!

Here's how bad. Recently during all this steroid conversation on the news, I heard that one of the reasons athletes take steroids is because it makes you recover more quickly from injuries. And my immediate thought was, "That would be awesome. Oh, my God. I have to quit derby before I try steroids."

This has become harder as I've gotten older. And I'm someone who never thinks of myself as someone getting older. But I have to be reminded when my shoulders click every time I raise my arms, or my knees crackle when I stand up, or when the girl next to me taking off her gear says she's going to miss the next practice because she has a final.

But I kept going to practice. I kept trying to be better. I wanted to know if I'd ever be good enough, if I could continue to improve, or if I'd hit some kind of wall. I'm a comedy writer, you guys. I never really forget that. But there are times when my feet move the right way and I skate past a girl who's normally three times faster than I am, and for like, sixty seconds: I am an athlete.

For a girl who has an inhaler in her purse and goes into panic attacks whenever she sees someone riding a bike without a helmet, this is kind of a big deal.

So two Baby Doll Brawls (two victories, once where I co-captained), one thousand falls and one novel later, I felt ready to try out for subpool. I knew I needed to at least try, to get an accurate evaluation of how I've improved over the past year. I knew there was a chance I'd get into subpool, and if I didn't, it would let me know that perhaps I really had hit my limit, that I could maybe skate Fresh Meat or Derby Por Vida a few times a week and let the Doll Factory become my hardcore gym. That I could back away from the goal of being on a team.

I signed up. Third time's the charm, right?

It was. Yesterday I made it into subpool.

I stuck around the track after getting the good news. Eighty girls were trying out for Fresh Meat, vying for some of the very spots my fellow subpool skaters and me had vacated only an hour earlier. Some of the girls trying out already know how to t-stop! Some of them, just like how I was back in May of '08, could barely stay upright on their skates.

As I watched them practice seemingly endless circles around the track it hit me for the first time: tomorrow night I won't be going to Fresh Meat practice. How weird. Tuesdays and Sundays have been derby days for almost two years now, and suddenly I have a new skating schedule (Yes, Tara and Dave: this means I'm home for 1 vs 100!) I have even more practices to attend and a whole new level of expectation placed on me. I proved myself as a freshie that I was ready to skate in subpool. But now I have to prove that I'm good enough to be drafted onto a team. I have two months [edited to add: I was wrong! It's six months!] to show them I belong there, or they can send me back to Fresh Meat.

I'm nervous. I'm scared. It's going to hurt. They are going to hit me and I'm going to fall. I'm going to fall a lot.

But I'm going to get back up and haul ass, hoping that they see how much I want to be there, and just how much I want to make them proud.

You know, this started with me wondering why I've hoarded all of these letters and notes, and then through Facebook I get back in touch with friends from my freshman year Latin class (For those of you who have seen the Little Pam fanpage, that's four of us (Latin was held in a Spanish classroom by a guest teacher)). So the other day I found a six-page print-out of our inside jokes from Latin class. Why is there a six-page list of Latin class inside jokes? Because I made one. I also have one from seventh-grade gifted class, and a two-year high-school relationship. I'm listy. I hoard memories, remember?

Anyway, I let the Latin kids know I had these jokes, and wrote out a few of them (because I still remembered why we said some of them), and Melissa wrote back:

PAM! I love it! You crack me up. Why did you keep that list? It's such a gem. I'm so curious about all the other quotes. I cannot remember what the chatterbox/mono quotes are about. Do you??

I've been meaning to tell you that I was so amused to find out about your job(s). I am not surprised in the least. When I try to recall our Latin class... and we have not even begun to reminisce about Latin II ... I picture you, with your head in some gigantic book, and with a different book nearly every day. You were constantly writing in some notebook. I almost think I remember you writing your own book or writing stories??? And, I definitely remember you writing somebody back and forth. You often were reprimanded, and you either looked up in embarrassment or you appeared to be mildly annoyed that you were interrupted! :)

You know this means that some of these letters I probably wrote while I was at school. That is sad on a whole new level. I always imagined I was on the floor of my bedroom, right next to my stereo that was looping Metallica's "Fade to Black." But in Latin class? Jeez.

I'm sure I looked embarrassed when I got caught writing because I thought the note was going to be taken from me and read aloud. But I remember that teacher was so bad at teaching us Latin (a completely different experience from our Latin II class, where Mr. Chandler became one of my heroes), I would make sure to have a million things to do in that class, seeing as how he'd be thirty minutes late to class at least twice a week.

I hate getting my time wasted. Still do.

That's the thing. Ever since I started sharing these letters with you, I now notice when I sound just like Little Pam in my Old Pam life. (I decided I would prefer Old Pam to Big Pam. [Aside to Kocoa Krunch: see? You are not alone, Biggie Talls.]) I can't tell you the number of times I've complained about something only to stop and hear the words I'm saying. It's damn near impossible to text with a friend about relationships or pitch a story that comes from something that actually happened to me or even go through my own manuscript without seeing that in so many, many, many ways I'm still that exact same lovesick, dork-ass nerd who only wants that cute boy to say, "I love you. Now please look deep into my eyes and let me share with you my soul."

I've tried to tell myself that I'm exaggerating, that I'm just being emotional about rehashing all of these emotions, that it's a healthy thing that I can feel, and empathy is an important trait when your job is to tell stories about how people relate to one another. But let's face it: even my need for a pep talk is sad. And pointless. Because once I talk myself into thinking I'm a completely different person than Little Pam (even giving her a separate nickname is such a sadly transparent defense mechanism), something will happen that will immediately point out that I'm still just a fifteen-year old girl.

About an hour ago it was this: my perfume today is CB I Hate Perfume's "In the Library."

You guys, my perfume smells like book.

On purpose. Old musty book. And I love it.

Ridiculous.

---

JD Salinger was the best thing about being fifteen. And twenty. And thirty-one. RIP.

20, Jan., 1991

Look at me. Look into my eyes. Let me look into you. Let me look beyond that mask you wear into your real feelings -- your real fears, your real worries, your real joys, your real sorrows, your real wounds, your real pride, your real goodness, your real honesty, your real gentleness, your real peace, your real turmoil.

I'm truly worried I'm writing to someone who doesn't actually exist.

And look, I know Alanis Morrisette cornered the market on songs that are really just lists, but as you can see here, I was way ahead of her.

Let me push aside what you want me to see, and examine what you've been hiding from yourself. Why are you trembling? Is it because I found it? Is this the door that unlocks your secrets?

Oh, no. I am probably writing a love letter to a fictional person.

Will you share them with me? Don't be scared. All I need is the key. Please. This door is worse than Pandora's box.

Jesus.

Open it. I want to learn about you. I want to feel your mind. I want to hold your fears and take them away from you. I want to know about your happy memories. I want to comfort you during your sad ones. Don't close those eyes. Those tears won't wash the pain away. You need me.

You need me legally enforced to be at least five hundred feet away from you at all times. My god. Needless to say the letter abruptly ends here as I threw my journal aside, too upset with the fact that nobody will let me feel his mind. LP most likely went to go find herself a bag of Doritos -- which is way worse than Pandora's box.

I wasn't done that day. I somehow found the strength to write again. A warning: this one's pretty rough. If you were ever in your life a fifteen-year old girl, this might trigger some PTSD flashbacks strong enough to re-sprout your breast buds.

20, Jan., 1991

I think that this is called depression. I'm not sure. Maybe. I thought you were supposed to cry when you are depressed. How come I'm not crying? I've been sitting here for over to 2 hours now feeling completely empty. I've been listening to old sad songs and just singing along.

Don't worry, LP. In about fifteen years you can do the exact same thing and it's called being drunk.

I wrote several unsigned love letters. I carved things into my skin. I contemplated telling my parents to fuck off. I re-arranged all of my cassette tapes. I counted how many times I inhaled in one minute.

I feel the need to reassure all of you that I'm probably exaggerating, if not flat-out lying. If I carved "things" into my skin, I probably scratched at my ankle with a safety pin, because for some reason back then I thought it would be super cool to have a scab on my leg in the shape of the Red Hot Chili Peppers symbol.

I officially tell you guys too much. But that is true. I'm telling you so that... I don't know, maybe one of you out there has a kid who's this age and you don't understand why she's a lunatic. Or maybe you're still ashamed of the time you thought it'd be a good idea to safety pin an asterisk on your inner ankle that would leave a faint scar for about six months. No, just me? Well. Then I'm here to constantly make you feel better about yourself. Superior. You know, like why you watch Hoarders or Oprah.

I mean, I obviously didn't do anything too traumatic to myself, as I then had time to contemplate doing something I never ever did, nor would ever do (tell my parents off). In the end I opted to re-arrange all of my cassette tapes. Yeah, take THAT, Establishment!

I called you sixteen times and hung up. Well, I almost called you sixteen times. I could always dial the first six numbers, and then I got this uncontrollable feeling of fear, and my trembling hand would slam down the phone before the other one could finish calling you.

I would like to think that this is a lie, but the specificity of the number sixteen makes me worry that I did just this, allowing myself only sixteen attempts to call. But at least now I know this letter is to someone specific.

Hmm. That didn't make me feel any better.

I carved your name in my bookcase.

Nor did that.

You'd think I'd remember who it was, if I carved a name into my bookcase, as that holds my favorite ice cream flavor, but I don't remember doing that. I do remember a junior high friend of mine carving the name of the boy she liked into my footboard, and I'm still pretty pissed off about it. My bed is not your oak tree, missy. If memory serves, that's the boy I eventually had my first tongue kiss with, which was awkward since his initials were carved into my bed by another girl who had long since decided she no longer found him to be "so fine it hurts."

Is it harder to be a teenager in the South? I feel like it is.

I tried meditation. "Maybe this is boredom," I thought, as I curled my legs out of the Lotus position. Then, as I stood up to try and put some excitement back into my life, I saw your picture sitting on my bureau, and I realized that this really was depression.

Um, I didn't have a "bureau." This letter is confusing me. Not because I have no idea what picture I could be talking about, but mostly because I know I didn't try meditation. I couldn't get my legs into the Lotus position. My family had KFC at least twice a week.

The fact that these damn tears keep rolling down my face was pretty much the giveaway.

LP forgot her opening statement.

That and this ripping, gnawing sensation that is tearing at my insides.

...which is probably the KFC.

Maybe that's where my soul is.

Oh, GOD. Why is life so stupid at fifteen? Why did ANYBODY talk to me? Honestly.

Maybe that's where my heart is. No, you know where my heart is, don't you? It's that crumpled piece of paper you tossed aside carelessly onto your desk. It's written on the lines of that sheet of paper. It's the ink that was used to write those three words that didn't even phase [sic] you: I love you. Maybe

And, you know, it just ends there because I'd run out of cheese.

One of my friends from high school wrote to me and was like, "Who was Homeroom Boy? You can tell me, it's okay! Was it [blank]? It was [blank], wasn't it?"

She was wrong, but I swear to you my first thought was, "How did she know I ever liked [blank]?"

You guys, twenty years later and I still haven't figured out how obvious I obviously was. That's pathetic.

So what if I liked him? You don't understand ANYTHING!

God! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!

Small, small world. He was writing to let me know that he does, indeed, still have that letter. My first book! (Speaking of books, the galleys are in for Going in Circles. Are you someone fancy who writes blurbs/reviews and would like to give me a blurb/review? My publicist would love to send you an Advanced Reader Copy! Email me.)

I looked through my high school box of letters and stories, but couldn't find another word about Homeroom Boy. It appears that saga quickly came and went. I did find this bundle of stationery from the Houston Town & Country hotel. It isn't dated, but from what I'm talking about it's sometime either at the end of my freshman year or maybe during the summer before my sophomore year. That makes me fourteen? Fifteen? I don't know.

But I do know it's mortifying and hilarious.

[BOY'S NAME HERE]...

Hello. Right now I'm stuck at my mom's hotel with nothing to do. Well, except write letters, because my mom gave me a lump of stationary [sic] & said, "be creative, write a story." Of course, I have writer's block.

The ellipses! Such a mysterious way to begin my sexy correspondence. Here I am, showing this boy that despite my mother's request for me to write stories, I'm instead sneaking way to pencil a few words to my beloved.

You should know that this boy is not my boyfriend and never was, and he also lives about four hundred miles away.

I went to a party Friday night. I met this guy named [----]. He's 18, and right now he's on a plane on his way to college. He's going to be a biophysicist. Wow. Anyway, he was telling [----], [----], and me the way you can tell when a guy is worth talking to. He also showed us really neat ways to hurt people. But enough about him...

This has brought back a memory that I had completely buried in my mind. It's nice that here I'm obviously trying to get my long distance friend to ask me about this older gentleman who taught me a few things on a Friday night (You know, because I used ellipses again), but I also remember that this guy gave me some bullshit line about how if only he wasn't going to college, he'd totally fall in love with me. And also called me a prude.

Yes, it's a theme. In my high school life. You guys, virginity is precious, and I protected it like it was a copy of my favorite book.

How are you? See, you didn't write to me, so I shouldn't be sending you this. [---] also didn't write back.

The letter ends there, as if I just talked myself out of continuing further. I must have found some inspiration, because a new page begins:

"Hi. I'm Eric."

Hi, I'm speechless. I just stared at the blonde god in front of me. I looked around to see if he was talking to someone else. He wasn't.

"You do speak English, right?" His blue eyes sunk deep into my brain, and I will never see a more beautiful color for the rest of my life.

I gave a small giggle. "Karen. My name is Karen." I repeated it to kind of reassure myself that I was Karen.

Hee heeeeeee.

LP didn't know it at the time when she picked a name at random, but she would go on to date multiple Erics in her life.

I guess I stalled out with Karen's story, or got distracted talking to my mom or something, because I then begin again. There's a distinct theme.

"Kacie," The blonde god whispered in my ear. "Kacie," he said a little louder. "Kacie!" he started shouting in my ear, his voice slightly changing. "Kacie!" Now it was more of a cackly [sic] voice. "Kacie!" Now I recognized the voice. "Kacie!"

It was my mother's voice.

"Kacie! Hurry up if you want to go to the movies!"

A sort of haze filled my mind as the blonde god left my side to go back to his little nook in the dream state.

"I'll be there soon." I sort of yelled. I don't think I can get up. I feel nailed to my bed. But I have been waiting to see this Keifer Sutherland film. I blinked my eyes open. I stared at the ceiling. I wonder what time it is.

I turned my head to the left. 11:30. I have never slept so late before in my life. I had to get up. I'm supposed to be going to see this movie with Eric.

Eric had the greatest pick-up line: "Do you have any spare lust you could share with me?" A little rude, but if you saw him you'd forgive him instantly. Piercing dark eyes -- almost black eyes. Long brown hair.

I "sort of" think this might be the very very very first draft of Why Moms Are Weird. It ends there, as I probably went to find a Diet Coke and wander through the hallways of Sheraton Town & Country.

I'm trying to remember if that "greatest pick-up line" was something I came up with or something I heard on the school bus. I'm pretty sure it's the latter. I don't know who the "blonde god" I'm referencing here could be. I'm sure it's someone I saw at that party, or walking past the senior parking lot, or it's Peter DeLuise. With me at that age, who knows.

God, I hope LP got to see that Keifer Sutherland movie.

Next page:

Kacie could not believe it. This just wasn't possible. How could this happen? Before she could always eat and eat. She went to sleep with her flat tummy and trim thighs, and she woke up

And SCENE!

I must have been struck with inspiration, as it now changes from the stationery to ripped out pages from my spiral notebook.

It appears that I abandoned my letter to the boy to write a very different love letter. One that appears to be written only to flatter and arouse... myself. Because this is some serious teen-girl fantasy fiction right here.

"Alli Weatherton, if you eat one more thing I'm gonna hurt you!"

That's what I usually hear. This is usually followed by:

"How you can eat so much and stay so thin is beyond me."

And then:

"You make me sick."

It's a lot of fun, actually. I mean, eating whatever I want, whenever I want. I don't brag about it, of course. But sometimes I feel so sorry for my friends who are constantly on one diet after another.

At the moment I am eating hot fudge sundaes with my best friend, Tricia Colbert. She eats as much as I do. And she shows it too. She decided to skip her diet this evening to celebrate my parents being out of town this weekend.

"So," she said, with her mouth full of ice cream. "How many people are coming to this party?"

"Everyone," I said. It was true. At least sixty people. And that's a lot for this town. Trenton, Rhode Island, is so small of a town that it's not on any map. "Want another sundae?" i asked her, as I stood up.

"No!" Tricia held her stomach and rolled back and forth on my beige carpet, getting tiny dust bunnies caught in her long, kinky, brown hair. "how can you eat so much? You are so thin! That Robert would be a complete moron if he doesn't fall for you immediately."

She's talking about Robert Chase, the guy I'm stoking out at my party tomorrow night. I hope she's right. I grabbed a bag of Oreos from the counter and returned to my seat in front of the television.

You guys, remember when everybody was totally saying "stoking out," after I coined it? I wonder if I thought I meant something that existed.

There's something about the fact that I wrote myself a fantasy story where I was a girl who could eat anything I wanted without getting fat that makes me so sad for LP. But I'm guessing if this story had continued, one day Alli would wake up suddenly, tragically fat, and her friend would be thin, and her friend would get to date Robert Chase who would totally be stoking out the skinny girl and not fat Alli.

It's all I wanted, really, to be the pretty popular girl who people envied, instead of the weird one who was always raising her hand or reading a book. I didn't hate myself, I just knew that I wasn't the kind of girl who got attention for just existing. You know, the girl who's so pretty everybody's talking about her. I had to be like HI, I AM IN A PLAY AND NOW I'M READING A POEM AND I'M IN YEARBOOK AND WATCH ME WEAR THIS GREENPEACE SHIRT AND COMBAT BOOTS. At a certain point I think I just went all-out weird.

This stuff is making me miss Sassy Magazine, big time.

For a moment can we recognize the genius of LP trying to get away with a fictional town by saying it was so small it couldn't be found on any map?

My mom never takes enough credit for being the one who got me started writing stories. My dad was an aspiring writer, so I think she assumes I was trying to be like him. But it was my mom who always told me to entertain myself by writing things down. Smart mom: you can't talk while you're writing. I mean, now I can, but it has taken years to perfect the art.

Next time LP writes to an unknown boy about how she might be depressed. Is it because of him? You'll find out once you GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!

So I might as well continue with the embarrassing confessions. Well, actually, let's get the first letter out of the way. Yeah, just like last time, there's more than one letter from November 20th. By the way, the entry titles are exactly how I dated these letters. All those commas aside, I don't know why I thought it was so much cooler to date things like that back then. But you guys, I really thought it was awesome.

20, Nov., 1990

You must really hate me. You do, don't you? Jesus, did I smother you or something? What did I do to completely change your mind about me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Oh, if only I could journey through your mind and probe your inner thoughts.

Yeah, that's some sentence, right there. I wish I could tell you what prompted this letter, but I don't remember. Let's see, it's been a week since the last angry letters, so in this case I'm guessing he's taken to avoiding me? I mean, if he's smart, that's what he's doing. I truly don't remember.

Do you hear me? I love you, dammit. I need you. My survival depends on it. Now I have the next four days all to myself, left completely alone.

Yikes, I hope I have enough paper to handle the next four days. Oh, look at the date -- it must be Thanksgiving weekend. It's only the SADDEST WEEKEND EVER for a teen in love with Homeroom Boy! Already calculating all those seconds and minutes into hours and days! How can I possibly be thankful when they haven't invented a machine that allows me to probe inner thoughts?!

Completely lost. Completely confused. Completely empty. I want to cry, but I can't. I want to scream, but I can't.

The screaming, again. I guess I can't scream because I'll get in trouble? That must be it. I don't know why I can't cry, other than possibly I'm starting to realize maybe I'm not as emotional over this boy as I think I should be.

I want to run to you, but I can't.

I just have to sit here on my ass and wonder what went wrong. I want to show my feelings, but I'm so empty that I can't even cry. Not that anyone would listen. The only one who ever really listened to me was you. And I can't very well tell you about how much I needed you.

And then it just ends here like I threw my journal aside and shoved my face into my pillow and made crying sounds but not one tear.

Something I should probably note here is that these letters aren't written on spiral paper. These are on loose-leaf three-punch lined paper. Which means I was probably planning on handing him this letter.

Last night I was telling Jason about these letters when something dawned on me.

PAMIE: I must have actually given the other boys their letters. These I had the good sense not to hand to the boy because he had no idea I liked him. But like, the others I'm pretty sure I folded up all origami-style and then shoved into a locker. Or, in the case of Douglas' two-hundred page letter, I just handed over.

JASON: I'm sorry, it must be loud in here, because I could have sworn you just said you wrote a letter with a page count higher than the number TWO.

PAMIE: Two hundred. I wrote a two-hundred page letter.

JASON: Was it a joke?

PAMIE: I don't understand that question.

JASON: Were you doing it to be funny?

PAMIE: How could that be funny?

JASON: Wow.

PAMIE: Then I shouldn't tell you I also wrote a two-hundred-and-five-page letter, too.

JASON: TWO HUNDRED AND FIVE PAGES?!

PAMIE: That one was a request. At one point I think he wallpapered his room with the pages.

JASON: Well, who wouldn't.

PAMIE: I don't think Douglas still has the 200-page letter.

JASON: Only because boys are mean.

I couldn't actually remember why I wrote that 200-page letter, but luckily I've already mentioned it TWELVE YEARS AGO when I was also writing here at pamie.com:

When I was younger, whenever I had a crush on a boy, I'd write him notes. Not even love notes, just letters telling him what's going on... blah, blah, blah. And these weren't your boring, "I'm in third period. I'm bored. How 'bout you? Circle yes or no--" type of letters. It was pretty much what you guys see in these entries... except longer.

One friend of mine received a 200 page letter (on a dare that he said I couldn't write one), he got it in three days. Another friend of mine was sure I couldn't beat that record... three days later he had a 205 page letter. I would fill up notebooks with my thoughts to keep them entertained throughout the boring school day. It also kept me busy during tedious classes. If you're looking to impress someone, nothing leaves an impression better than a stalkeresque ramble and rant about how the cafeteria sucks and "my parents aren't home tonight by the way I love you." Just reels the boys in, let me tell you.

So I wrote a lot when I was younger, and I still wonder what was in those long notes I gave to random boys throughout the years. Do they still have them (as I know 200 page and 205 page boys have theirs (they kept in touch... like I said, it leaves an impression)), or did they throw them away with all the other love notes they got throughout their lives? Even if they did, I made a few boys more literate than they normally would have been... and that makes a difference, I guess.

God, even twelve-years ago me is a total dork. "At least I made some readers!"

So what I'm saying here is that 20 November ends up being kind of a banner day in this one-woman romance. You'll see.

20, Nov., 1990

So this is heartbreak. So this is heartache. So this is what it feels like to be scum.

I have to guess that the only thing that went on between the writing of the last letter and this one is an unanswered phone call, or one where his mom or sister said, "Hold on. ....Huh? You don't-- Oh. Um, he's not here right now, can I take a message?"

It's even more painful than love. And I thought that love sucked. Love was a giggle compared to this.

That's fucking poetry, man.

I feel so empty. I feel so alone. why did you do this to me? You said it was too fast.

Oh, shit. I guess I DID get friend-dumped. You guys, friend-dumping. It's so sad. I'm so sad for LP. She's so confused. How did she get friending so wrong?

Too fast? How? We've known each other a year and a half and you've never even held my hand. You've never kissed me. You've never held me. You've never told me you loved me. Now all of a sudden you need me to leave you alone?

Oh, man. That's like an order! "Leave me alone." I bet I won't listen!

PS: If I'd been told by an authority figure to do something, I completely would have listened, as "Getting In Trouble" was -- and still is -- the worst thing that could ever happen to me. But since this is just a boy who doesn't understand how important it is that I love him, I will continue to make sure he is really sure that he means "Leave me alone." I mean, first of all, there's so many ways to interpret what he's saying. And really, if you look at it, it's only three words, what he said. I've said WAY more words than that. So, you know. I'm clearly better at this than he is.

What did I do? I just want you back. I need you. Maybe you'll feel this emptiyness emptyness [sic] as well. Maybe you'll miss me. Maybe you'll know how it feels to have your heart torn from you. What do you mean "It's not gonna happen."?

Okay, so we've reached the part where I have to make another grown-up confession. I now remember parts of this letter, and realize why I found this stack of letters. This was the inspiration for LETTERS NEVER SENT, the show I did six years ago with Liz. I used to perform parts of this letter out loud every night, eventually for the HBO Comedy Festival, and what would happen is I would read this letter and Liz would make fun of me and over my head on the screen behind me was a giant picture of my high school yearbook photo and... well, this boy's head as well. Which is why I'm NEVER GOING TO SAY the recipient of this letter... unless you went and saw that show years ago, in which case, you heard me say his name. And saw his face. Which he totally can't sue me for because I didn't make any money off that gig.

Yay, confession over! Back to the horror:

It's so final. So serious. So fucking painful. Don't you like me anymore? How come you did five days ago? Enough to discuss it with the others.

The others! I can't believe I don't have any letters from five days previous, when I found out somehow that he liked me maybe kind of. Where are the happy letters? Wait. I bet I wrote them and gave them to him and then he called me to say "IT'S NOT GONNA HAPPEN. LEAVE ME ALONE."

But you know, again, I have to say... he's not really being all that clear. I mean, LP likes you to break it to her super-gently. Like, say over the course of five years.

Now you call me like nothing has happened. What's your deal? Do you love me or hate me? There are no in-betweens. No exceptions. Love doesn't make exceptions.

And it ends there because that's some powerful shit LP just laid down.

Okay, so let's see here. It appears I have a friend who is a boy who is getting all these love notes from me and said somehow, "We're just friends and only going to be friends." He might have even said, "Leave me alone." But I bet he was like, "Now who's going to do my homework over the phone?" and called me, hoping I'd have already gotten over him. So, you know, in my defense... that's pretty stupid, right?

Because, you guys, what happens next is so embarrassing that Liz and I wrote an entire show around it. I mean, our show was ultimately about other things entirely, but the inspiration was on this one moment in my teen life where I made a pretty big mistake.

It starts with this.

20, Nov., 1990

[HIS NAME HERE]--

I think I have a problem. Great tone to start a letter with, I know. But just please listen to me.

See, there's this guy, and I really think I fucked things up between him and me. See, we've been pretty good friends for a while, but lately we've gotten to know each other better.

You guys, can LP get a high-five for how super-casual she's pulling off this tone? It's like, "Hey, friend. Can we talk, FRIEND TO FRIEND? See, I've got this friend who's totally not you, so don't you worry. I just need some ADVICE. About this GUY. I'M LITTLE PAM AND I LOVE YOU."

I always thought he was cool, so there's never been anything real awkward between us.

I have no idea what that means.

I guess we hit it off right away.

But I do know that right there I am straight-up quoting a lyric from the "Cell Block Tango" from the musical Chicago, so that's awesome. Oh, man.

You know who knew the lyrics to Chicago in 1990? Ann Reinking and me. That's it.

Now, don't get the wrong idea about him, [BOY'S ACTUAL NAME], he's always been a perfect gentleman. He's never been anything but nice to me, and everyone agrees that he's a great guy. My problem? I'm getting to it, just hold on.

I can't believe how embarrassing this still is.

I don't know how or why, but we started to become closer and closer. I thought that maybe I was forcing him or something, but he called me as often as I called him. He's different from most of the other guys. Most of the others are constantly making disgusting sexual comments or whatever to me, and commenting on the size of my chest, but like I said, he was different.

I'm not going to say anything here, but I'm sure you need a break, so... go ahead. Catch your breath.

And I don't know. Maybe. He might have been gay. I DON'T KNOW. We never talked about it. Because there was no such thing as gay at that school at that age. Gay wasn't invented in Katy, Texas, until at least 1992.

So, I found myself thinking about him more and more. He was, like, always on my mind. But I kept trying to make myself not like him. I kept telling myself that he was only a friend, and that's all he'd ever be, a great friend. Even [NAME OF MY BEST GIRLFRIEND AT THE TIME] thought that I should leave it at friendship, because we were so close.

...and she must have known he didn't like-me, like me.

And I took all the advice, but... well, you know that little voice inside of you that constantly goes on about how you need someone, and how it goes on about this one person until you can't get that person out of your head? Well, that little voice started rambling about that guy. And while I forced my head to concentrate on my studies, my heart pulled up a chair to chat with the little fucker.

This is where I worry that my writing hasn't improved in the slightest since 20,, Nov,ember,. 19.9,0.

And my heart ate all of that sappy shit up and started fluttering and fainting whenever that person was around. I started feeling stupid. But I was kind of drawn to him, you know? I tried to keep my heart away from him, by being with other guys, but once my heart makes up its mind, the rest of my body is hopelessly helpless. It's actually quite a pitiful sight. I always talk about that person. I dream about him. I wish for him. And then, when I know I'm truly hooked, I write about him. Not dopey notes like the ones I give you. These are full-blown mushy sappy sexual romantic tear-jerking love letters. Do I send them? Hell, no. No one has even seen them. You are the first I've told about them.

Okay, so... first of all let's talk about this serious issue I've brought to light. Fainting Heart Syndrome affects one out of every five dorks, and it's truly no laughing matter. I mean, a heart murmur is a giggle compared to Fainting Heart Syndrome. Symptoms include: a weeping heart, confusion and understanding, a yearning for wit, hypergraphia, sighs that sound brainwashed, an inability to cry despite feeling overwhelming sorrow, an urge to kill and/or die for a near stranger, and a fixation on having someone's breath dancing upon one's virgin neck.

Oh, God. This letter. It's just not over yet, you guys. There's more sexual romance to come.

Anyway, I was writing pages and pages about the guy. I was in love, I thought. About this time, people began to bug me about him. Do I like him? Do I love him? Does he like me? Is he going to ask me out? Like I'm fucking Nostradamus or something. I couldn't very well ask him. I just kind of played it cool, you know. I didn't tell anyone my feelings, because my head was still trying to talk my heart out of this mess it was getting me into. Then I found out that he liked me. He told one of my friends who told me. So, I'm estatic [sic], right? And I'm ready to leap into his arms and be carried off into the hokey sunset.

Those of you who have written to tell me that my teen letters sound like chapters of Twilight, I have to ask... is this still the case? Because LP's developing a cynical jaded streak right before our very eyes. It's like, this unrequited love WHICH LASTED LESS THAN THREE WEEKS is to blame for a good third of my (possibly still current) trust issues.

"Like I'm fucking Nostradamus," indeed.

I would have done anything for him, [BOY'S ACTUAL NAME]. I still would. Lie, cheat, steal, beg, kill, die -- nothing was too much. I began needing him more and more. I knew I was in love, and to tell you the truth, I was scared shitless, because I know that when I fall in love it's forever and I never fall out of love, only move on.

I'm just letting you know here that I just had to turn the page. Because we are now on PAGE FOUR.

I wasn't going to leave this guy. [BOY'S ACTUAL NAME], he was, well, is, so nice. He's a great guy, really. He's hilarious and good looking -- great looking and all.

If I recall correctly, in the live show, this is when we put his yearbook picture up on the giant screen.

So now you're like, so? What's the deal? My deal is my problem:

He told me that he doesn't like me. Well, he didn't use those words, he kinda said it wasn't going to work out. He was real nice about it, I mean, I know he didn't mean to hurt me, but there's really no nice way to crush someone's heart. But I'm not blaming him or anything, it's not his fault if he doesn't like me anymore.

No, LP! Don't give him excuses! He's just brainwashing you again.

It's not illegal to change your mind -- yet.

I mean, think about it, you guys. I mean, really think about it. It could happen. It really could. I mean, think about it.

It's just kind of painful, you know, and I've just spent the past couple of days healing. Writing and sleeping and crying, my basic pattern. I learned something: some really fucking great writing comes from pain.

Fuck yeah.

I'm just worried that he thinks I hate him or something -- which I sure as hell don't. I remember right before he told me it wasn't going to happen --

Going down memory lane already! See, Homeroom boy, we've already shared so much! How can you just throw it away like that?

-- he asked me what I thought of him, how I felt about him. Had he not already started with some bad news, I probably would have told him. I wouldn't have hesitated. I've only said it three other times before in my life but I know that this one would have even more meaning, more feeling than the others.

My apologies to the other three boys, just in case you're reading this. It's possible at least one of you might find this some day. Baby, you know I didn't mean it. You know when I said it to you it meant the mostest. Except YOU, the one who dumped me because I wouldn't take off my panties while we made out to your 2 Live Crew record. You know who you are. You can suck it.

Jeez, apparently I no longer have any inner monologue. Hi, everybody.

I would have straight out said it: "I love you." But I didn't. I sat there like a dumb-ass and made us both feel like shit.

[BOY'S ACTUAL NAME], I hope he isn't pissed at me or at himself. How do I tell him that he didn't do anything wrong and that no matter what happens I'll always be there for him? How do I tell him I care without him freaking out? How do I tell him that he's my best friend in the whole world and that I need him?

Maybe I already did.

Pam

It gets worse from here.

Because what I did next was... I called him. I mean, I immediately called him. I know I finished this FIVE PAGE SINGLE-SPACED LETTER and then picked up my phone and punched up his digits. And then.

You guys.

I READ THIS LETTER TO HIM OVER THE PHONE.

Every word. I read him the entire thing. Without stopping. Without even checking to see if he hung up at any point. I just barfed out my weepy, fainty heart.

There was a pause after I finished the last word. That last word being, "Pam," just in case he was unsure who was talking to him. There was a pause. A pretty long one, if I recall. And then he said:

"I have to go."

He hung up. And that was the last time Homeroom Boy ever spoke to me.

When we last left Little Pam (LP), she had found a new fixation on which to Velcro her weepy heart. Five days later, she grabbed a red pen and then this happened.

13, Nov., 1990

Why are you doing this to me?

It is all your fault, you know. You have to be so damn beautiful. So damn perfect in any way. You made me fall in love with you. You knew what you were doing from the beginning, didn't you? Don't flash those innocent brown eyes at me, I know how well you manipulate.

I wonder if I imagined this boy reading this letter and being flattered by it. Because the weird coy hostility here isn't working at all. LP's got no game.

You've brainwashed me, that's it.

You guys, I'm sure as soon as I was finished writing this -- and oh, believe me when I say it's a first draft and there are almost zero corrections. I'll be sure to let you know whenever I changed my mind mid-genius -- I'm sure as soon as I finished the last loopy scribble I flipped back to the first page and read the entire thing out loud. Because even then I knew that if it didn't sound right, it didn't read right. So I'm wondering how I performed this one. I bet I was so creepy, reading it with what I assumed was a sexy smirk. You know, I'm not one to advocate teenage sex or any kind of adult behavior among the little, but maybe if by fifteen I had at least an idea of what sex or sexiness was that wasn't solely acquired by watching Cinemax in the middle of the night I'd have made, like 32% less of a fool of myself. Maybe. Maybe 12%.

But back to the cheeky sex kitten. I believe she was blushingly accusing her beloved of the amorous act of brainwashing.

There's just no other explanation. It's brainwashing when that person something monopolizes your every thought, every move, every wish, every desire, every command, every motion, every breath, every tear, every smile, every sight, every sound, every laugh, every second of every minute of every hour--

Yeah. Yeah, I did. Wrote it all out. Because you know what's hot? Nouns and units of measurement!

--of every day of every week of every month of every year, every dream, every nightmare, every sigh, every movement, every feeling, every word you say or write, and being helpless and completely out-of-control.

That sentence went all crazy at the end, didn't it? I mean, I know it was crazy throughout. I KNOW that, okay? I'm just saying, I had to go back through the list to figure out how I wrote myself out of that one.

But forgive LP her meandering sentence structure. I mean, can you imagine how hard it must have been? Having her sighs brainwashed?

I know you caused this. Because you are the object of these feelings, thoughts and desires. You are what makes my sun rise and set. You are what brightens my day and makes it darken again. You are what brings me joy and pain. You are what causes confusion and understanding.

YOU CAUSE ME UNDERSTANDING.

This is the part where I say to those of you who have written in to say, "I can't believe you're posting these. I have letters just like them, and I'm cringing with how much I identify with what you once went through." -- I'm just going to go ahead and assume at by this point you'd like to retract that statement and just go with, "I can't believe you're posting these."

Because there's more, and I don't want you to have to regret anything you might have already said that makes us seem like we have this kind of crazy in common. You're off the hook.

You are what causes laughter and tears. You are what causes hope and utter helplessness, you are what causes sleepless nights and stressful days. You are what makes my life liveable [sic]. But if you make my life suck so much, then why do I just keep on loving you?

You guys, it's really hard to be fifteen.

Because you are making me, that's why. Because you know that you have me at your beck and call and that you've got me drooling on your shoes in a disgusting religious sacrifice show of affection.

Okay, that one's pretty rough to share here in public. Wow.

Wow.

Please don't make me comment any further on that one. I... you know what's funny? AND I'M NEVER GOING TO DO THIS, but part of me wants to find this person and apologize but it would end up being on Facebook and then I'd be WRITING HIM A LETTER. AGAIN.

So instead I write this here, so that it's an unsent letter, so that it's exactly the same thing, twenty years later, except this time in public.

This means I'm actually regressing, doesn't it?

You know I'd do anything for you: lie, cheat, steal, kill, die, and that's just what makes you happy. Go ahead. Fuck with my head.

Oooohhh. Someone got out her Nine Inch Nails album.

Make me miserable. Make me cry. Make me scream in agony and weep in misery. Make me whimper. Make me sigh. I'll still love you. But you knew that, right?

And again, it just ends there because apparently I threw my journal across the room and then ran into the kitchen to drown my sorrows in a bowl of potato chips and a glass of whole milk. What? My parents both worked, okay? They didn't have time to teach nutrition! If they were home and available to talk to me and feed me carrots and celery, do you have any idea how hard it would have been for me to become a comedy writer? It would have been nearly impossible. I mean, as a woman.

Unrequited love, one spiral-bound notebook and a refrigerator filled with high-calorie snacks. THIS is how you make a success!

Anyway, I--

Oh.

Oh, it turns out LP wasn't finished. I guess I ate all that, then ran back into my room, slammed myself down on my daybed and... wrote some more.

13, Nov., 1990

It's not fair. It's not fair. I never did anything to you.

I am so sure that's untrue. I mean, even if we don't count the apparent stalking, I feel like I must have done something to make this kid be totally weirded out by me.

I never did anything mean or rotten to mess with your mind. I never teased you or hurt you. I've never been anything but nice to you. So why do you keep torturing me?

Do I mean by how he's not my boyfriend? I don't even know what I'm accusing him of. Oh, wait. The brainwashing. I'm mad at him for making me fall in love with him. By being alive. Well, you can't argue with that, can you?

Why must I sit in agony day after day after day? If we are such great friends, then why and I'm supposed to be able to tell you anything and everything, and you are supposed to be able to tell me anything and everything, then how come I can't bring myself to tell you how I feel about you?

Oh, Jesus.

And you aren't helping matters much keeping to yourself like that. What are you thinking? What's going on inside your mind? Is it anything like the anguish I feel knowing that your lips are only a foot away from mine, and yet they can't break each other's barriers because of a bond called friendship?

I'm guessing he's thankful every day for that barrier. I bet he's thankful every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year.

Are you confused too? Do you stay up at nights, wondering if we'll ever be together? Do you love me? Do you need me? Do you want me? Do you even like me?

Oh, that last one's so sad, isn't it? I'm haggling down to like.

If you've never done any of these things or asked yourself the same questions, then your hell doesn't even compare to the hell you are putting me through. Do you have any idea what it's like to live day to day just to see someone's face? Or hear someone's voice? You are all I live for.

"--boy who has the same homeroom as me."

You are everything. You are my heart and my soul and my mind. I need you. I want you. I love you. If you need me, I'm here. If you want me, I'm here.

"In my room. Because I'm totally grounded for talking on the phone after nine on a school night."

If you love me, I'm yours. Take all of me. I will enter a state of bliss that might only compare to the esc ecstacy [sic] of heaven.

Probably I don't have to tell you this, but it's going to be another few years from this point before I lose my virginity.

But if you don't want me, just say so. Please, my heart can't take much more. If you want me to go, I'll gather my sorrows and exit your life forever, although I don't know how I'll survive without you.

I like how I won't even finish the sentence that gives him the option to tell me to go without the threat of my immediate death on his hands.

I won't survive. Survival is painful without love.

Indeed, LP. Indeed.

Survival is painful with love, if the object of your desire is keeping his feelings a secret. Won't you tell me? Share with me your soul.

If someone's keeping a list somewhere, this sentence is my new number one for Most Embarrassing. Also, can I get a Glarkware of "Share with me your soul," please?

Please. I want to hear you, feel your words dancing in my mind and tickling my ears. Oh, heavenly bliss--

Oh, shit.

-- I need to feel your body twined with mine. I want to stare into your eyes and be swept into another dimension.

Oh God, I think I'm in love. Now I'm scared.

And then it just ends here like I threw my journal across the room, ripped off all of my clothes and ran around my backyard in a frenzy. Good God, that thing was filled with so many hormones I think I just caught a zit. What a horrible day I had on November 13, 1990. Why won't that boy sweep me into another dimension with his chocolate brown eyes and tell me if he even likes me? Why is he torturing me so, just going to class and then going home and then like, going to class again? Doesn't he understand my body needs twining?

Jesus, you know, I had friends back then. Did I not tell any of them any of this? I don't think I did. Thank goodness I eventually got into theatre, so that I didn't have so much time to myself locked in my room not doing a very good job of babysitting my little sister.

Oh, man. You know how people sometimes say they'd love to go back to high school and do it all over again? Are they crazy? This is what it felt like! Every day! And every day felt like a million days all squished into one sad horrible neverending day.

Or maybe that was me. I don't know. But you what doesn't make it better? A bowl of Charles Chips and a glass of whole milk. But I tried. Every day. Until I was ginormous.

But that's another letter.

Until next time: GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!!

Oh, man. Here we go.

8 Nov 1990

It doesn't matter what I try to do. Every time I try to do something you start to take control again. You creep into my soul -- you've perfected it by now -- and occupy my every thought, every move, every emotion.

What is this, five weeks later? You guys, I'm talking about a completely different boy here. A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT HUMAN BEING.

You make my pulse race, my stomach jump, my eyes roll back in ecstacy [sic] as I think of the feeling of your body twined with mine and your voice filling my head, pounding, twirling, twisting and whirling until I want to scream.

That sounds awful. Again, it's important to note that in this case, as in most cases of my unsent letters... this boy has not only not ever kissed me, he most likely has no idea I even like him. Yet, I like him enough that I volunteer to have the experience of his voice whirling in my head until I scream.

Also, for the first half of the last sentence it sounds like I'm describing a key scene in The Exorcist.

But I can't.

Can't what? Can't scream? I don't understand why not.

I'm afraid. It hurts to say the truth.

Wow. Well, it does hurt to say the truth, particularly when you are screaming it.

I can't tell you how my heart cries when you aren't near me.

Which means my heart was crying pretty much any minute of my life other than the forty-three minutes of homeroom. No wonder I wasn't participating in sports, you guys. My heart was weeping. How can I be expected to run laps when my aorta needs a Kleenex?

I can't tell you how my ears long for the sound of your voice.

"--because you don't pick up the phone when I call."

I can't tell you how my mind yearns for your wit.

Shut up. My mind yearns, okay? For wit.

And I sure can't tell you how much my body longs for your touch. Your kiss. Your breath from your whispers dancing on my neck.

Hee hee hee. Hee hee heeeeeee!

I need you. I want you. But I can't tell you. Why can't I tell you?

Because he keeps running away? If only I could catch him! Damn this weepy heart!

You asked me if I knew what love is.

I have a feeling his question was either sarcastic or rhetorical. Or both. Also, never ask a fifteen-year old girl if she knows what love is. Well, don't ask fifteen-year old me. It appears to cause some problems. Know that I want to interrupt every sentence that's coming up in this next little batch, but I think I should just let it all come out at once here, like a Band-Aid that was taping up this teenage mortification gash.

I don't know, is this feeling love? Oh, no, it can't. Love is supposed to be this amazing, glorious feeling and all I feel is pain. Agony. Torture. I feel it when you are gone. I feel it when you are near. Because all I can think of is how much I want to take you and hold you close forever.

Three years later, Sarah McLachlan will compose a hit song using only these words.

But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know you love me too. Do you?

"Well, I--"

Wait, do I love you? Is this love?

"--Oh, dear."

Is it love when you always want to be by that person's side? Or maybe love is measured on how much you know about a person.

Uh, I thought we already covered this five weeks ago, LP!

Do I know you? Oh, but I do. I know your smile, your laugh, your humor. I know your name, your family, your house.

Okay, the thing is I really did strike out those words in the letter. I had to, because even back then I couldn't somehow live with lying in a letter nobody was ever going to see but me. I am sure I agonized over striking out the words, which is probably why I didn't scribble over them until they were illegible, but rather drew a single, solitary, sad sad line. It must have killed me to do so. Because the truth is, I didn't know his full name --

And you guys, remember: knowing someone's full name is important when determining whether or not you have enough information on them to determine whether or not you love them.

--had never met a single member of his family and had no idea where he lived. I like how I started with like these driver's license facts, "Well, I know where you live and I'm practically a member of your family," and then was like, "Except I don't know any of these things at all, but I do know your humor, so we are soulmates. Now get in my arms so I can commence holding you FOREVER."

Again, please remember: it's possible the only relationship I have with this boy is that we do our homework together over the phone. ... You know what I mean. We work on declensions. Every night!

This next passage is absolutely humiliating.

I know what you do during the day because I talk to you all night. I know how you think. I know how you work. I know how you feel. I know what you like to do. I know what you don't. I know what you love. I know what you hate. The only thing that I don't know is the feeling of your lips against mine or the touch of your hands or heart. And for that sensation I would kill. Is that love?

NO.

Actually being able to kill, steal, lie, die for a person. Oh, God I'm in love. With you.

If love is the end-all, be-all feeling, why do I feel so horrible?

And the letter just ends here, like I threw down my journal and wandered off into the woods, searching for an answer, or perhaps to go kill someone, steal a wallet, and then die.

I don't know how many of you out there are fifteen. I don't think it's too many, at this point. I must be pretty boring to fifteen-year olds. But if you are and somehow you're unlucky enough to be like, even a third as dorky as I was, please know that it gets better. Life does get better. Just not for like, a bajillion years. And I know it's SO NOT FUNNY right now, how you feel, and everybody who laughs at you can just go suck it. And know that in like, ten years you'll find these letters and it still won't be funny, and in like, fifteen years you'll find them again and someone will laugh and you will be like GET OUT OF MY ROOM, but right around the twenty year mark you might see a couple of these letters and be like, "Wow. Okay, maybe that one went a little too far." (But PS-- I know, it's still not all that funny because your feelings are real and true and deserve to be validated and you deserve to be heard. You are a good person, and boys can be so mean.)

I just glanced down at the stack of letters to see what's coming and saw that the next two letters are written in red pen. That can't be a good sign.

This would be a good segue to explain why I cannot watch the show Hoarders, because while all of you sit back and judge and cluck and wretch, I am breathless with anxiety, clutching my throat, thinking, "How can they just throw out that entire box of old onesies without asking which five are the most important?! They don't even know why she saved them! There's a reason!"

But instead, since I'm going to just go ahead and hoard my hoarding confession, I figure I'll post these letters. I can't do them all in one post. They're kind of lengthy, and... well, I think that would be too damaging for my self-esteem. That's one thing I can't seem to stockpile: dignity.

Here we go. Enjoy. All letters are typed exactly as written, typos and all.

1 Oct 1990

His smile. His hair. His weird, warped, twisted, beautiful personality. That's how he will always live on in my mind. Forever.

As much as I know he's right, I can't bring myself to face reality. It's over.

It might be important to note that I just realized who I'm writing about here and I think he and I dated for exactly eighteen hours. I cannot remember if we had a conversation about whether or not we were boyfriend/girlfriend, but I do remember him calling me to break up with me, and I'm guessing I hung up the phone and then immediately lunged for my notebook, in order to catch all of this fresh emotion.

It's over. I keep telling myself this as I play our song over and over again --

U2's "With or Without You." NOT THAT IT MATTERS. Also: apparently he could, in fact, live without me. Immediately.

--as I wallow in my disgusting self-pity. I replay everything in my mind and I know that I did nothing wrong, he did nothing wrong. We just learned too much and too little about each other too fast.

That sounds like I had sex with this boy. I did not. I don't think anything happened but like, a kiss? Maybe? Honestly, you guys, mostly I remember holding hands and listening to U2. And then a phone call the next day where he dumped me. Because we apparently had learned both too much AND too little about each other too fast. Like we're Mickey and Mallory Knox or something.

But he said he cared. He said he'd never mess behind my back. Well, he did keep his promise.

Oh, a joke! Go, little heartbroken me.

And I kept mine. When he held my hand, I knew it was the start of something good -- really good. Something real. Something that will last. Something...whole and massive and whirling and twisting and --

Oh, boy.

--passionate and beautiful and wonderful and exhilerating [sic] and hilarious and weird and giddy and tingly and estatic [sic] and there. I mean really there. He kissed without force, held me without domination.

Um... I... it sounds like he really didn't want to kiss me, nor hold me. Maybe because it was the start of something "weird."

He liked me. He liked me. He liked me. And for one miraculous weekend he was mine and I was his and we pledged eternal faithfulness and we laughed.

In case you're wondering, the writer of this essay is fifteen years old.

We held each other. We shared numerous feelings and emotions: romance, fright, disgust, humor and wonder.

Also, more than half of the numerous things we "shared" sound like they weren't fun at all. I seem to have given this boy one really shitty weekend of virginal song-looping and maybe, I don't know... scab-picking?

We knew each other -- I thought. It felt so great having someone care about me, someone who picked me up when I fell--

Definitely scab-picking.

--someone who wanted to be by my side instead of expecting me to do it without question. Someone who treated me as an individual and as a thing of beauty. Someone with common interests. Someone with common goals. Someone whom I respected and respected me. God, has anyone else ever felt like this or am I the only one with these feelings?

Wow. Okay, that sounds like you've found someone very special there, Little Pam. You've learned a lot about this boy, so for God's sake, don't go and do something stupid now, like learning too little!

He said he was serious. Serious about us. He said it, I heard him.

--"Your Honor."

What possesses a boy to change his mind in the course of 24 hours?

Let me answer that one for you real quick like, Little Pam. YOU do.

He called me. Said he needed to talk. Said he thinks he's tied down. Said he wants to be free. BE FREE?! Said he didn't want to hurt me. Then he said the worst. The F-word. FRIEND! He said he liked me, but he didn't want a girlfriend at the time. He said it's going too fast for him -- was it for me? And that he doesn't really know me -- do I agree?

It really seems like he let me down kind of easy, and even gave me a couple of ways that I could try and talk him into seeing me again for another day of finger-linking and Bono-singing. Not like my first boyfriend in the fifth grade, whom I'd only had one conversation with the entire time we were "going together," who broke up with me by having Matt Fakes tell me at recess that my boyfriend didn't think I was cute anymore and he wanted to go with somebody else.

Not that I hoard all of these memories. I could toss them at any time. But how could I know which ones will be important to you later? That's right. I hoard for you. You're welcome.

That's the last I've spoken to him in 5 hours.

That's my favorite sentence of this entire letter.

My heart aches at the loss. Then I thought of his words, "I hardly know you." I thought about this. What was his middle name? What was his favorite movie? What kinds of books does he read?

Jesus, I am a NERD.

When did he start to like me? Why is he a grade younger than I am when he's the same age?

Ha!

What's his favorite ice cream flavor?

"Gosh, I hope it's Book, just like mine!!"

What classes does he take in school? What does he want to be when he grows up? When is his birthday? Is he a virgin?

Did I really know this person that I pledged eternally faithful to? If he didn't know me, why did he care? Why did he want me as a girlfriend one day and a good friend the next?

WHAT DID I DO?

WHAT CAN I DO?

Boys are weird.

And thus began my legacy of pinpointing exactly what groups of people could be considered "weird," but never really determining why.

"it's a simply written book of no great genius, but i lost count how many times i was laughing out loud. very entertaining."

My work here is done!

...which I'm cool with as long as we're all at the same slumber party.

The Me in my current universe stopped being the one having the best day about three seconds later, when I got a ticket.

I've told about eight people that I've gotten a ticket. Friends, co-workers, my boyfriend. Some who have known me for a couple of weeks, some who have known me for about a decade. Upon hearing me say, "I got a ticket," every single one of those jerks immediately asked, "Was it for texting?"

All smug and self-satisfied like that. Talking to me like I'm a baby. "Aw. Was it for texting?"

No, it wasn't for texting! For your information. That was my last ticket. And that wasn't even for texting, either, because the kind police officer gave me a warning, and instead wrote me a ticket for not having my drivers license address match my current home address. [Side note: Californians, if you haven't done that, do it online immediately. The crap I went through to get that fix-it ticket dismissed ended up costing me more time, money and materials than if I'd gotten the fine for texting. It SUCKS.]

In this case, I was so surprised to have been pulled over by an officer of the law that I didn't actually even have time to know I was being pulled over. I had parked my car and then saw the lights in my rear-view mirror.

Here's what happened.

Okay, I'm driving, thinking about parallel universes, thinking about how I don't normally drive down Hillhurst, thinking about how a butterfly flaps its wings and somewhere on the other side of the world chaos ensues, when I suddenly see an elderly man shuffle into the crosswalk. Now, my car is pretty much at the crosswalk, and this man is a good fifteen feet away from me. I have two choices:

slam on the breaks, stopping before or at the crosswalk, in order to wait for the man to catch up to where I am, but probably cause someone to rear-end me
OR
just keep going, knowing that I'm absolutely no danger to the man who has just entered the crosswalk.

I thought, "Let's keep everyone safe here and just keep going. Don't cause sudden stops or screeching or panic. It's best to just keep your speed steady and get right through this."

I then pulled over, because the crosswalk was one block from my destination. That's when I saw I'd been actually pulled over.

The thing is, I have NO IDEA why I've been pulled over, because I was POSITIVE I'd done the right thing. So when the officer tells me I'm getting a ticket for failure to stop at a crosswalk when a pedestrian has left the curb, I don't even know how to process all of the emotions going through me.

"It's okay," my boyfriend Jason says on the phone to me minutes later. "Everybody gets a ticket."

"I DON'T GET TICKETS!" I'm shouting.

There's a small pause before he asks, "Didn't you just get a ticket for texting a few months ago?"

"IT WASN'T FOR TEXTING!" I wail. "Not in the end!"

"Right. I'm sorry."

"I can't believe this happened. I can't believe this happened!"

I can hear him stifle his laughter before he calmly says, "Look, I know you feel like your honor roll status has been removed, but it's just a ticket. It happens. You said the officer said he was camped out giving tickets for just this thing. Maybe the old guy was a plant. But don't beat yourself up over it."

"But I'm supposed to beat myself up!" I say. "That's why I got a ticket! Because I did something wrong. I got in trouble! No more honor roll for me!"

I had said to the officer (after I'd politely pointed out where he'd incorrectly written my old address on the ticket, as there was NO WAY I was going to go through the fix-it ticket fiasco once again), "The thing is, I really thought I'd done the right thing. I saw that pedestrian and tried to assess what would be the safest reaction in this situation."

"Ma'am, you're supposed to stop. No matter what. That's why they have signs that are neon green a few feet back, to let you know that you might have to stop. No matter what."

And that's where I have a problem with this. "No matter what?"

"No matter what," Jason said. "That's the law."

"But that's ridiculous!" I said. "My car goes so much faster than an old man! Physics and science should come into play here! He can stop, he's practically already stopped! He barely has to do anything to avoid an accident, but I've got to yank this two-ton machine to a stand-still in order to obey this man's every chaotic whim?"

"It sounds like he was a few feet from the curb. Probably he was headed into the street."

"Even if he broke into a run I couldn't have hit him from where I was. I just don't see how the pedestrian is never responsible. Me. Me in the big car. I'm the one who has to stop."

"Yes, that's... kind of how the law works. And why we have it. Because you're in a big ol' car that can kill people."

That night I had a dream that I was in Alabama and I'd somehow accidentally broken a law when I went to order some Chinese food. I didn't know what I'd done was against the law, and it was a law that most people didn't even pay much attention to. So much so that nobody had realized the ancient penalty for that law was still on the books -- death by lethal injection.

"I'm sorry, that's what it says," the woman at the Alabama courthouse said to me over the dream phone. "Our earliest available appointment for that injection is tomorrow afternoon at five. Okay? We'll see you then."

I'm sitting with my mom, thinking about how this is the last time I'll see her, because after this I have to go turn myself into the Alabama courthouse to be given my lethal injection for breaking the Chinese Food Law. I don't know if I should tell my mom that this is the last time we'll be together, or if she should just find out later, after I'm gone, so that we don't have a difficult goodbye, one that will hurt both of us.

I get a little upset in the dream world, because not only do I not know how to appeal such a thing, but nobody seems to be all that concerned that I'm going to die due to a law most people in Alabama don't even care about. So finally, I tell my dad what's happening.

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Don't go," he says.

"What?"

"Don't go to the injection. What are they going to do? Try to find you? Guess what? Every minute they're looking for you? You're alive and not dead, like you will be if you just go in there and let them kill you. Get out. Go home. Go to Los Angeles, where you live. What the hell is the matter with you? Go!"

And even then I was like, "But Dad, I'll get in trouble. I don't know. Let me think about it."

After I told Jason about that dream he said, "Man, your dreams are so literal. Doesn't that get annoying?"

"You have no idea. Because of this conversation, tonight I'm going to have a dream about you telling me my dreams are too literal. You'll be doing this as we're eating at the Dream Cafe. You'll get to order a Fun Burger with rainbow dressing and I'll be stuck eating a bowl of Scrabble tiles they call their Literal Salad."

"You don't always have to follow all of the rules," he says.

"I do, though." I say. "Me. I do. When I don't, see what happens? I get in trouble. Dream Alabama wants me dead."

Last night Cat says, "I agree with you, Pamie. Rules are good."

"Thank you, Cat. See? That's how people rule. With rules. We call them rulers."

"Yes! I think. Wait. Hmm. But structure is good. I like structure because it makes other people do what I think they should be doing."

"And chaos is that old man who's currently gimping along Hillhurst Avenue, making you have to slam on your breaks, intentionally cause a several-car pile-up just to obey a rule that seems to go against the very laws of science, which should probably trump the rules of the road. A several-ton vehicle traveling at 35mph is the one expected to stop on a dime, not the elderly man who's traveling at the speed of shuffle."

Jason asks, "You know, if he was going that slowly, shouldn't you have noticed him long before he was a few feet from the curb? I mean, isn't that probably what the ticket was actually for? That you were supposed to have noticed him before you actually did, and that's why you were expected to stop?"

There's a silence long enough to stop a car at a crosswalk before I say, "Okay, well, you know what? At least I wasn't texting."