Thursday, November 20, 1997.

Every house we move into, I stop and realize that it is home. {This is valid. We moved a lot and there was a moment in every home that I realized that it had gone from being ‘the new home’ to just being ‘home’.} I may know it and say it but the feeling was never really there until today; just a few minutes ago.

I lost my linesman job tonight because of my bitch of a french teacher (because of the skip thing.) {So full of anger when you’re clearly the one in the wrong. Tisk tisk boy!} 

As usual I’m waiting for Katrina to call, {Seems like all I did was wait for her to call, dream about a ‘FRENCH’ kiss and fondle a boob twice.} I really hope she can go out Friday, tomorrow, or whenever.

I don’t know how it will work if we are all standing outside waiting for everyone else. We’ll have to hope that she will just be dropped off no questions asked. {Right… because fathers typically just drop their daughters off with a bunch of guys downtown ‘no questions asked’} Who knows. {Not you, clearly.}

I think I’m obsessed with Katrina. {No. You? Never.} I can’t help it. I suck! {No argument from me.} I just want to be always be there and talk to her and hear her voice and stare into her beautiful eyes. I think I love her. {Jesus buddy that’s just hormones fucking with you.} I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know what real love is but I know I don’t ever want it to end.

{No clever 90s sign off this time. I am sad.}

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