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I’m kind of relieved that’s as far as it will go, if only because I would have no idea how to document my devirginization. I can’t go into detail about stuff like this when it’s about me. I make it sound a lot nastier than it really is. Plus, when I describe it like this, in the most basic terms, it shows just how selfish I am about sex stuff. I’m making Len do most of the work. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m taking advantage of him. Wouldn’t Manda be proud?

Speaking of, my skankiest classmate seems to think that we’re not moving fast enough. On the last day of school before break, after Len and I gently kissed each other good-bye before French (me) and Accounting (him), Manda marched up to me and asked, “Have you guys fucked yet?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business,” I snapped.

“They haven’t fucked yet,” she said matter-of-factly to Sara, who was hovering behind her. Then Manda turned back to me. “You better do it soon. The longer you wait, the bigger a deal it’s going to be. You’re going to regret building it up so much.” Then she sauntered off, her ass shaking with every step.

As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Manda said. I told Bridget about it later that day.

“Maybe she’s right,” I replied. “Maybe I have built it up too much.”

Bridget gently placed her hand on my shoulder. “When it’s with the right person, it’s, like, totally worth waiting.”

“How would you know? You didn’t hold out on Burke very long and he definitely wasn’t the right person.”

Bridget chewed on her ponytail instead of responding. I guess it was kind of cold to throw her dubious sexual decisions in her face like that.

“Do you think Len is the right person? I mean, if he were willing?” I asked. “Like you said, we’re both cute, smart, uptight virgins.”

“Come on, Jess. Only you can answer that.”

She’s right. But as history shows, my whole concept of love is usually for shit. I don’t know. I like him. I really do, even if I have to stifle the urge to complete all his sentences. My relationship with him is secure. Easy. Reliable. Len doesn’t cause me any angst, which is why I don’t feel the need to write about him. With him, I don’t have to exorcise my demons by scribbling maniacally page after page after page. I won’t be shredding any notebooks devoted to my sick obsession with him anytime in the near future, that’s for sure.

December 31st

Dear Hope,

I’m waiting for Len to pick me up for Sara’s New Year’s party. While I do, I’ll make another futile attempt to better myself.

Six Goals for My Senior Year That I Hope Will Make It Suck

a Teensy Bit Less (2002 Edition)

1. I will not be a college-unbound senior. Now that I’ve completed my application to Columbia, I will not get caught up in the mass hysteria of the college selection process. I mean it. No more Peterson’s paranoia. None.

2. I will try to write, if not happy, then less miserable journal entries. If I’m lucky enough not to be completely pissed about something, Lord knows I should document the rarity for posterity.

3. I will be nicer to Bridget and any other misguided individual who— for reasons I can’t comprehend—pursues a friendship with me despite the inevitable and immutable incompatibility at its core.

4. I will ignore the Clueless Two. This still requires herculean effort, as their adventures are too front-page tabloid to go unnoticed by the anonymous author of Pinevile Low.

5. Now that I’ve read Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace’s so-called Gen-Whatever masterwork, Bubblegum Bimbos and Assembly Line Meatballers , I will try to be more like the me I could be if only I were braver . . . bolder . . . ballsier. Applying to Columbia was a good start, but I need to do more.

6. I will try to appreciate my boyfriend, especially since he is not (a) a homosexual or (b) He Who Couldn’t Remain Nameless.

Dubiously yours,

J.

january

the first

Ow.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

My face hurts.

OWWWWWW.

It’s 4:32 A.M. The light from my clock is like a laser, boring right through my brain.

OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

I’m in my own bed. How I got