Jan. 6, 1973, 74, 75
(Image coming)
I got my book bag caught in the spokes of my bike, and then wrote about this latest humiliation. On the other hand, I did “good” in softball, meaning I managed to avoid any action.
Jan. 6, 1973, 74, 75
(Image coming)
I got my book bag caught in the spokes of my bike, and then wrote about this latest humiliation. On the other hand, I did “good” in softball, meaning I managed to avoid any action.
Jan. 5, 1973, 74, 75
(Image coming)
1973: Another Day when “nothing happened.” I didn’t even have anyone to play guitar with. Sad.
Jan. 5, 1973, 74, 75
(Image coming)
1973: Another Day when “nothing happened.” I didn’t even have anyone to play guitar with. Sad.
Jan. 4, 1973, 74, 75 (image coming)
1973: Once again, I don’t know who Ed and Diana are. But I like Ed, and… SHUCKS! Shucks? What am I, Opie? I remember myself being generally miserable at this time of my life, and yet this is starting to sound like a Norman Rockwell painting.
Jan. 4, 1973, 74, 75 (image coming)
1973: Once again, I don’t know who Ed and Diana are. But I like Ed, and… SHUCKS! Shucks? What am I, Opie? I remember myself being generally miserable at this time of my life, and yet this is starting to sound like a Norman Rockwell painting.
Jan. 3, 1973, 74, 75. I can’t figure out what to redact with this diary. I feel like Pam Bondi. I think I won’t black out a name unless something is embarrassing. And no last names. (Image coming)
Jan. 3, 1973, 74, 75. I can’t figure out what to redact with this diary. I feel like Pam Bondi. I think I won’t black out a name unless something is embarrassing. And no last names. (Image coming)
Jan. 2, 1973, 74, 75. (Image coming)
1973: I have no idea who Ed or Diane are. I do remember my red and blue bell bottom jeans and the white body shirt stretched over my disappointingly underdeveloped 11-year-old form. (I was a year younger than everyone.)
Jan. 2, 1973, 74, 75. (Image coming)
1973: I have no idea who Ed or Diane are. I do remember my red and blue bell bottom jeans and the white body shirt stretched over my disappointingly underdeveloped 11-year-old form. (I was a year younger than everyone.)