So-and-so died. (Yawn.)

My memory of my childhood is a little on the foggy side. So I thought I'd take a look at an old diary and see what the hell went on when I was a kid.

Here's what I notice about  my nine-year-old diarist self: I was either not very expressive about my emotions, or I was a stone-cold psychopath.

​Shortly after my ninth birthday, we see the demise of my goldfish, in two chapters (and some very confusing date-recording):

Shortly thereafter, it was Freddie Prinze whose demise I recorded. It seems that my spelling, capitalization, and pen choices were all affected, but that may have been it.

Next to kick the bucket: my filthy cur, Ralph. I had stolen him and his brother Floyd as puppies from my neighbor Lisa Perez (I guess I do have some childhood memories—I'll save that one for another blog), and I swear I really did care for him. But my diary entry looks like it was written by a plagiaristic, robotic narcissist. "Kitty" is what Anne Frank called her diary, so I had to rip that off. Then: "Ralph has died of heartworm. I wish he hadn't." And finally, we get to the real news: that the mosaic I made from wallpaper might make it to the state fair, tra-la-la.

Maybe it's best that I just keep my childhood memories a little foggy.