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Kerry Profitt’s diary, May 13.

I’m probably not the first person who has felt this way, but I’m the first me who has, and that–self-centered, much?–is what really counts.

The aforementioned "way" is hard to define. Something like bored, but not that exactly. Here’s what it is. I’m a senior in high school, and I’ve already been accepted at Northwestern, which is up in Chicago, which is North-ish from Cairo, IL, which is here. So I know where I’m going to college and I think my grades would have to wholly suck to get them to change their minds about me. Which they don’t. Studying, with a few exceptions such as February, when my mom died, has been easy for me, so not so much of a problem with the grade thing.

Which means, I guess, that these last few weeks of class are the educational equivalent of wheel-spinning. It’s hard to focus on what the teachers say and hard to care about all the little dramas of my classmates. The days are getting warmer and longer and all signs indicate summer is coming.

And then there’s the fact that today is Mother’s Day. Which, see above.

I should be looking forward to prom and graduation and all, right? Not to mention the summer after that, and the fall and a new life as collegiate girl.

But hey–we can’t all be quote normal unquote.

As a for instance, prom would be a lot more fun with a boyfriend. But–see above, again–taking care of mom during her long illness has sort of meant that I haven’t had much time for that kind of thing. And then being uprooted after her passing, and going to live with Aunt Betty and Uncle Marsh, who are sweet enough as far as that goes, has meant that in this school, I hardly know anyone. Which adds, no doubt, to the general malaise of which I type.

I toyed with the idea of buying Aunt Betty a Mother’s Day card, but in the end couldn’t do it. Instead of celebrating, I took a bus over to the cemetery today and took some flowers to Mom, daisies because she always loved them, to the point of putting some ridiculously goofy daisy stickers on our refrigerator a couple of years ago. I tried talking to her, but that felt weird, and I got self-conscious. So then I came home, read for awhile, finally dug out Ye Olde Laptop to memorialize these timeless thoughts.

Tomorrow? Monday. Back to school.

Can you say "pointless?"

More later,


Kerry Profitt’s diary, May 14.

Was it just yesterday I was all mopey and broody and such? Seems like, and thanks to the wonders of modern technology I can go check.


But not today. Because today, after school, I got this phone call. And what it was, was, a place called the Seaside Resort in a place called La Jolla, which is in a state called California, offered me a summer job!

I applied a little over a month ago, online. Had to answer an online questionnaire and do a phone interview. And then, nothing. Nothing. Still nothing.

But today, happiness all around! Because they want me. I have to get myself there, but I have a nice insurance settlement from Mom’s death, which is mostly for college but I can do this, too. Besides, I’ll make more than enough to cover the flight. I’ll also have to live there, of course, during the summer, because commuting from Illinois would be just a tad absurd, not to mention expensive. But they have a roommate matching service, so they’ll hook me up with some other summer employee or employees and we’ll get a place together. I guess they hire lots of seasonal help from all around the country, which is cool, so they’re used to helping people get temporary housing and deal with all the other odds and ends of picking up and flying to the ends of the Earth for summer work.

And La Jolla isn’t exactly the ends of the Earth. I had to look it up when I first saw the job listing, and found that it is essentially the end of California, being part of San Diego, which, when you go more endier than that, turns into Mexico. But everything I read about it sounded very very cool, what with the Mediterranean atmosphere, the spiffy beaches, the tourists from all around the world, the yummy restaurants and the shopping that’s no doubt far too pricey for me to indulge in. So I applied, one might say "eagerly" if one were all about precision and accuracy, and now that I got the call I just can’t wait to hop off the plane in sunny So Cal and see it for myself.

Before, the days were kind of dragging by. Now that I have something to really look forward to, I have a feeling that they’ll make the last month or so seem like they were flying.

Did I say I can’t wait? I can’t! Really truly!

More later,



Kerry Profitt’s diary, June 3.

It’s a Sunday, and a day of some note. June 3 is, my calendar tells me, the birthday of Jerry Mathers, who played the Beaver in Leave it to Beaver, classic late night sitcom–well, it wasn’t late night when it originally aired, but that was in my parents’ day, not mine. Also the birthday of beat poet Allen Ginsberg, and while he’s not exactly my cup of tea, poetry-wise, there’s got to be some sort of universal irony in him and the Beav sharing that birthday.

Of more immediate note–because it really is all about me, at least in my diary–it’s Graduation Day. Which means, yes, campers, Prom Night came and went and I wrote…what? Why, exactly nothing. Because you didn’t want to read my being all gooey and bummed, did you? But Graduation Day–that is something in which I did participate. Uncle Marsh stayed sober and Aunt Betty cried, which is something she does frequently and well. Apparently in some cultures that’s a prized attribute, and someone with her gifts could hire out for funerals and make some real bank.

I wore a gown which was gold, our school colors being blue and gold, innovatively enough. And I had the traditional mortarboard with the traditional tassle, although I didn’t use it to actually mortar anything. I did move the tassle, though. And I accepted a rolled up piece of paper which is not, as it turns out, really my diploma, because that will be mailed to me.

But by the time it gets here in the mail, I will be gone. Because La Jolla awaits.

I made a few sort-of friends in these months at school, and I admit I shed a tear or two during the day, and enjoyed several hugs, and even had some of those "oh, you’ve got to stay in touch, here’s my AIM, text message me" kinds of conversations. But when the ceremony was over I got back in the car with Uncle Marsh and Aunt Betty and came back home instead of going out for some kind of grad night let’s-get-wasted-and-hurl event. It’d be depressing if I wasn’t looking forward so so much to California.

These months, since Mom died, haven’t been real life. They’ve been a weird mirage. Real life will start when I step off the plane and my foot is on West coast soil. I leave on Saturday, and there’s tons to do, so forgive me, diary o’ mine, if I don’t get back to you for a while.

More later, K.

Kerry Profitt’s diary, June 9.

I am on the plane. Really and truly. I can barely believe it myself. Illinois is behind me, California ahead. And in California…who knows? Romance? Adventure? A lot of hard work, dropping dishes and spilling soup on the patrons? They want me to be a waitress, and my experience in that area is limited, to say the least. But I did wait tables at a diner in Cairo last summer, and I guess that’s good enough. I only hope I don’t stink too heinously.

The lady sitting next to me is snoring, head tilted back, fingers clutched together as if she’s nervous even though she’s asleep. At least, I hope she’s asleep, because if she’s just faking to peek at what I’m writing, now she knows I’m writing about her. Well, too bad. Lady, some people shouldn’t wear yellow. You’re one of them.

Yeah, I know, rambling. But guess what–I don’t care. California, here I come, as the old song said.

More later,


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