I�m choosing my words carefully because they all now have the address to this page. After exclaiming a �D�oh!� for not just passing along the bottomquark address, a disclaimer was given with regards to my foul mouth and the often idiotic and alcohol-related (coincidentally, of course...) activates I describe herein. They already know my true character, so I�m betting this will just be some occasional entertainment or fuel for when they talk about me in my absence.

Okay. I�m an attention whore and want them too to be part of the Chicago Jo fan club.

Like all good children, I call my family occasionally. In passing conversation, my dad tells me to watch out for nose pickers on the subway. And while talking with my maa about the previous job situation, she asked a nonchalant, �I know. Is that the company that will give you cheaper bus cards and stuff?�

A slight panic speeds my circulation, and I realize just what all I�ve said in this diary.

First off, I occasionally mention copious amounts of alcohol consumption. My parents are afraid that their honor roll little girl who brought home trophies for all of the years of ass kissing she did is now a certified boozehound.

They imagine me staggering down the street with a paper sack holding my bottle of MD 20/20. (Usually it would be the $1.07 bottle of Thunderbird, but I now have a job.) They read about me hob-knobbing it with the kinds of people my sister hung around in high school. They probably think that I�m the kind of kid who brings down the property value of the neighborhood.

Quite simply, I do have a good time. And now that I�m with a group of friends who I know have my back if I overindulge, I allow myself to let go occasionally. My liver really isn�t about to go on strike. My soul hasn�t turned black. I don�t do anything with permanent consequences. I just have a good time. No worries, dear parents.

[Note to self: Do not drunk-dial your parents. This causes them great concern.]

I have sex dreams. Don�t we all? And aren�t they the highlight of our occasional nights?

Cripes, I wish I had them more often. It�s the closest that I�ll be to getting any now since taking up the nun lifestyle. My new motto:

I�m like a nun -- Nobody's getting� nun.

There were people all around and my buddy Smiley the bum was standing nearby, so I knew I was in no danger. I merely took advantage of the situation and made it work to my benefit. It gives me a good story to tell, especially now that ice cream isn�t something I eat anymore.

There are also certain things that parents don�t want to know about their angelic daughter, and the lust-driven Justin Timberlake entries probably said too much. My, um, hips have grown men cry and (oh geez...) my thighs quiver.

There was a movie or a book or something that I once heard about how embarrassing it could be to tell your parents that you were pregnant, even if you were happily married and had heard the when-am-I-gonna-get-some-grandkids inquiry for years and years. The moment that you announce your pregnancy, your parents can no longer believe that you are a virgin.

Poof -- Gone! No more blissful denial.

But these people at least have some grandkids to offer up as a consolation prize. I, on the other hand, will remain childless for a long, long time. I�m not ready for class fieldtrips, sticky fingers and runny noses, or having to give two craps about anyone else�s feelings when I make decisions. I�m also not about ho-ing it up either, but...

I do promise naked pictures of myself on the Internet. I graduated magna cum laude, and I was a college cheerleader. This may actually be something marketable if I ever encounter future unemployed stints.

Okay family. Keep reading and forget the stories you don�t want to remember.�