I bought Why Girls are Weird this weekend (after a wacky misunderstanding where the Books-a-Million clerk thought I was looking for a book about the oddities of White Girls) and spent most of Sunday reading it. The first half was sad, but I couldn't put it down until I finished. I really liked it. It was a well-written book and an engaging story. There were parts that were extremely funny, and parts that were very sexy, and all of it was touching and real.

This is where it stops being a book review and turns into an entry all about me, me, me. Of course.

I actually think I would have liked it even more if I had no idea who Pamela Ribon was. I know just enough about the author to realize that I don't know anything about her at all. The first time I ever visited her old Squishy site was the day she took down the archives and put up her farewell message. I�ve been reading faithfully since she began posting entries again last year, but I have only a vague understanding of the history behind her journal.

I tried not to confuse Pam�s real life with the events of the book. I tried to think of it as a work of fiction, the way she meant it, and completely disassociate her from the main character, but I didn�t have the mental discipline to keep from wondering at certain points how closely the chapters match her past journal entries and how much had been changed. There were a few times when all the nosy speculation in my head was too distracting to allow me to completely immerse myself in the story.

The book really made me think about my own relationship with the internet, comparing and contrasting the way I deal with my journal, the blogs, forums, and journals I read, and the people who are in my life now because we found each other online.

I feel a little stupid for choosing "Anna" as my pseudonym when I decided that I wanted to post online but I was not bold enough (or trusting enough) to use my real name. I didn't know that it was such a common handle, and I should have spent a little more time on research before choosing my name. It's too late now.

The fact that the protagonist of Pam's story is named "Anna K" rubs a tiny bit of salt in that wound while at the same time giving me another reason to identify with the story. Like Anna K, I am a different person on the internet than I am in real life. She creates a slightly altered persona with a better, cooler life. I used the internet, and especially my journal, as an experiment in being truly honest for once in my life.

I started this journal about a year ago, and wrote down the stories I won't usually tell people. I was a part of the ThreeWayAction community back then, but I didn't really know anyone. I felt detached and safe on the internet, because they might know all about me, but they could never find me or point me out in a crowd. That started to change one day in October when I met Abby Normal live and in person for drinks, music, and pie. My (ex)boyfriend snooped around and found the journal, I let some of my friends know that it existed, hell - even some of my coworkers visit the site. The majority of the people in my life (not including my family) read my journal, and the truth I started sharing in these pages has made its way into my relationships.

These days I'm even dating a boy who has his own journal site, and I feel almost paralyzed by attention. I can't write any more about the way I see my life and the events in it. I've heard "why didn't you write about that?" or "what made you say that?" too many times. A lot of my friends seem to think they know what belongs on this page.

I've decided to retreat into the past again, in case you haven't noticed. The old stories are easier to think about, and they are fixed in my mind. I can't stand to be the kind of girl who contradicts herself in every entry. The inside of my head is a whimsical place where neither logic nor passion rule. I change my mind every day about what I want ("Oh, everyone leave me alone with my Pain!" "No, come back and have a long talk with me" "I have nothing to say, lets drink, dance, and/or fuck until we're too tired to think!" "But I want to be alone!"). It's messy and undignified. I'll tell you all about it in five or ten years.