It is March 28, 1997. Bill Clinton is the president. I think he is a cool guy, but my dad doesn't, because he is a Republican. I am thirteen years old and in the eighth grade. I am the tallest girl in my class, and I have the biggest boobs in my class. This doesn't do me any good, though, because I am not only an Amazon, but I am also a super mega dork. The Internet is a big, shiny new thing this year, and I am very fascinated with it. Instead of taking home economics like the other girls, I am in a computer technology class. I am also in band, and I play the flute.
It is March 28, 1997. I have a "boyfriend," and his name is Brad. He is an even bigger dork than I am. He plays Dungeons & Dragons, and he's the only teenage hockey fan in the entire Midwest. Our one and only real "date" consisted of watching Schindler's List on video in his parents' living room. I don't know it yet, but in six months, I will break poor Brad's heart. I also don't know that in five years, Brad will marry a girl with the same name as me. He will also join the Marines. He won't know what to do with his amazing nerditry, so like many other guys I will graduate high school with, he will feel like it's either the military or factory work. This will, in five years, make me very sad.
It is March 28, 1997. Last week, in school, all we talked about was the Hale-Bopp comet. I dragged my crappy old telescope out of the basement and onto the back porch, but I didn't see anything.
It is March 28, 1997. I am laying in a bed in a hotel room in Pennsylvania. This week is Spring Break. I've been with my family in New Jersey, visiting my relatives. I am sharing a room with my sister and two brothers. We are watching TV. We are watching the news. Two days ago, in California, thirty-nine members of the Heaven's Gate cult commited suicide. They believed their spaceship was coming along with the comet. They wore black Nike sneakers, took some pills, and drank some vodka. I change the the channel and fall asleep watching a biography on Richard Simmons.