December 1994
Dear Diary,
Just got back from Fugazi. Saw Cliff. Saw John. Saw Tyler. Talked to Bobby a lot. Saw Antonio. Antonio…his name just rolls off my tongue like Italian ices in 90-degree heat. Too bad his personality isn't so hot. Ha ha. Brad Faryll=gross (and hot). Antonio is not My Secret Agent Lover Man. No one is. Today Dan wore a Primus T-shirt to school and had Type-O-Negative written on his hat and I was like—cool! But Allison said I wouldn't look at him twice if I saw him at a show. It's true. Carrie introduced me and I got shy, which is so unlike me. Well, it's a little push but maybe if I pedal by myself I can get my swing to go higher.
December 2003
When I was in tenth grade I was obsessed with two things: going to shows and boys. That was my life. I obsessively went to hardcore shows, and compulsively got a crush on any boy who looked at me. I remember little things about all those shows—singing into the microphone whenever the Bouncing Souls played, girls up front at Bikini Kill, standing on the side of the stage with Vision of Disorder (they're getting big, I swear. They sound just like Pantera), and thinking I was really, really cool. I remember little things about all those boys, too: Antonio had a weird rockabilly haircut. Cliff claimed to like Ani Difranco and so I pretended to like her too. John and I actually went on two dates (I was 16 and he was 24, we went to the movies and I had a coughing attack and had to leave early). I think that dude Tyler wanted to beat me up. Bobby was (and still is) my soulmate. Brad Faryll's deal was that he used to jerk off in the backseat of his parents' car during family trips to the Hamptons. Being obsessed means remembering little details like that. However, being obsessed also means that about 90 percent of my diary entries are totally fucking boring, because obsession is only cute for like five minutes. Then it turns into psychosis, and then psychosis turns into doing stuff you never thought you'd do, like Google-ing his name five times a day or taking fortune cookies way too seriously.
LESLEY ARFIN
