August 15, 1973In which I need someone to confide in and write a story about myself

I really need someone my age to talk to. I will go crazy soon if I don't. Maybe I have gone crazy already because yesterday I went out on the long dock and talked to myself. Of course I had a good reason. I had just finished Five Smooth Stones. That novel is full of truth.

I hate Sally S. I don't know why I said that now -- but she is a bitch. She says things that I can't tell if they are truthful or not.

Cindy J. makes me angry also. Maybe she doesn't have time to write -- but she should make time. I thought we were best friends -- but she has proven that thought wrong.

Lori S. is going to have a boyfriend -- a real good boyfriend -- not a Bob or Gary. But a true guy who she likes. One good thing about Bob is that I knew I didn't like him -- not like Gary who I thought I loved.

A journal is fine -- but it just can't answer questions for me -- I really don't have any solid questions -- but some vague ones that I can't put into words -- can't even find...

Once upon a time there was a young girl from a low middle-income family. When she was very young -- before she was sent to school she didn't care whether someone was "better" than herself or more a friend of her friend. But in Kindergarten she began to see cliques forming, groups that she wasn't a part of. As she grew up this feeling of being "less than most" grew until it overpowered her. She had few friends and no boyfriends at all.

Finally she was able to almost overcome this feeling with the help of her mother but the inferior complex stayed with her even at seventeen. What happens I cannot tell -- until I grow older to find out -- but I will honestly try.

All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all.

Ducks tails, drakes tales
Yellow feet a-quiver.
Yellow bills all out of sight-
Busy in the river.

I cannot remember the rest of it - a poem by Something Grahame. In fiction it is by Water Rat in Wind in the Willows. The reason I thought of that is because I see just that. Ducks with their heads under water and tails high in the air. Beautiful.

Note:
Unfortunately for the girl in the story, she never did feel as if she amounted to much. She still feels inferior to most -- less than most -- as she wrote thirty-three years ago.

Weird transition [none] to the Grahame Greene poem. I still say that when I see ducks feeding.