January 13th 11:57 PM

I've never done this before, and I'll probably never do it again. I've never been much for diaries- I couldn't even get through Anne Frank in seventh grade. But, to be honest, I've gotta vent to somebody, and I don't know who even cares anymore. If it were six months ago, I'd just run to Mom and spill my guts. But it's not six months ago, and if it was, what would I even have to tell?

Ugh- that stupid Backstreet Boys song is on the radio- the one where they're talking about what kind of girl they like, and that one guy just keeps saying over and over that he wants a girl who will cook him dinner. Or something like that. Sarah does the best impression of that really ugly one, the one who's, like, forty- or at least she used to. I haven't talked to her in a while.

Last year, when we where studying the New Testament in Catholic Theology, the class had this long discussion about how when Mary was pregnant with Jesus, she knew who the father was (that would be God, for our Jewish friends), but nobody else believed her. I only half-listened (and, by some divine intervention, managed to pull a ninety on the test), but the thought occurred to me the other night around 3:30, and I suddenly knew exactly how she felt. *Bursts into hysterical laughter* So, this is what it takes for me to get the Bible - the irony is killing me.

I have never lied to my mother, which is why it kills me that she doesn't believe what I'm telling her. I don't know, maybe I answered, "Taylor Hanson" sarcastically to one too many questions. Now, when it really matters, she doesn't realize I'm dead serious.

I ask myself that question an infinite number of times a day, never arriving at an answer other than the obvious one - he saw me. He asked me to, and he got me a pass. Little old Olivia. It was a no-brainer; backstage I ran. Little Red Riding Hood, all giddy in the woods.

I lose control for one second, and this is what happens. I become the mother-to-be of Taylor freaking Hanson's freaking love child! That's exactly what I am. I feel disgusting, and like I could easily fit in among the guests of The Jerry Springer Show- I'd put the cheating transvestites to shame.

I feel so, immensely, indescribably stupid on top of everything else - I think he might have been drunk. Either way, I'm sure he doesn't remember me. There were probably a dozen more of me that night alone- starstruck Minnesota girls who have never seen the ocean, have never shopped in New York or taken a cross country road trip with their friends, yet who are about to bring a child into the world.