The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

Before

If you travel in the USA often, there is one state I would not recommend you visit. The grass is so green, so flat, always dewy and freshly cut, the ladies' almost always attend the same college and follow the law of chastity taken from their core religion. The men go on missions all around the world teaching foreigners about said religion. And unless you travel about an hour up to the Great Salt Lake, you won't find many liquor stores, clubs, or tattoo parlors. And the closest beer would be at Applebee's, which isn't my first recommendation of a good place to quench your thirst. And say you do travel to this state, looking for good mountains and a fresh hike. Well, you'll probably find, in the place you eventually decide to camp in or stay at, a no smoking policy and a group of girls from the ages 12-18. Maybe they'll be singing, or sitting around a crackling fire, scriptures open on their jeans, tears streaming down their face.

But, for the most part, these girls were the worst thing that ever happened to me. And they look innocent at first, but don't be fooled by their god-loving, commandment-following, non-swearing faces, they are ruthless.

And that's exactly where our story begins. It was the summer of 2000, the beginning of a new century, and I had gotten myself into quite the pickle. I had also gotten a journal, a new leather journal. That journal was the second worst thing to happen to me.