I'D DO ANYTHING TO BE YOUR EVERYTHING (OR ERIN, CIRCA 1991)

Most of us spent our adolescence being stupid for boys. My friend Erin spent hers being stupid for boys AND chronicling it in unflinching detail. That's what separates the Jane Austens from the Danielle Steeles.

I had heard tell of Erin's juvenilia on several occasions. The first was when this creepy guy murdered two of my elderly neighbors and Erin's husband called the newsroom to ask Erin: Isn't that the Damien I read about it in your diary, the one you had a crush on, the one who brought a gun to school, the one you had to tell on (thereby putting the social good above your own heart)?

I didn't know what was more shocking — her husband's casual familiarity with the contents of her diary or her casual familiarity with a crazed killer. Later I learned that Ben knew all her secrets and she knew lots of criminals, so neither turned out to be a big deal.

The diaries came up a few more times in conversation, and one day we decided to read them. She went to an upstairs closet in their 100-year-old bungalow and brought down a stack of well-cared-for journals of different sizes. She hadn't looked at them in years. Most were adorned with stickers and doodles. One doodle, a sign of her incipient feminism, said "Year of the Woman!" Another praised gun control. And next to a doodle praising gun control might be a brightly colored sticker of a unicorn or a shamrock or a word like "AWESOME!" or "SUPER!" She made some effort to match the color of her ink on any given day to the colors in her stickers. It's the kind of diary you could see a 12-year-old Martha Stewart having. You could see the child's love for school supplies — inks and papers and stickers and glue — that would translate to an adult love for crisp linens and coordinating sheets and well-ordered pantries.

All the pages were filled with neat, evenly spaced handwriting, a precision and control that belied the messy adolescent drama that was about to unfold.

The leitmotiv of the diaries is Erin's Quixotic quest for love: "I'm longing, yearning for love. My heart aches always. Love is one wish that will never come. I can't keep my mind off Mr. X."

But there's also social intrigue: "Carissa is acting real snotty lately. Worse than usual. She really blew up at Ellyn this morning. Me, Debi, Adam, Brandy, and Jami are getting revenge on her." (Stay tuned!)

And economic ups and downs: "Now I have 26 dollars."

And self-reflection: "I'll say that I am also a incredible bitch most of the time. I'm surprised my friends put up with me. I hear myself saying these snobby things and I want to kick myself. Even my dad says I have a rotten personality."

It's a microcosm of adult life: same worries, same obsessions, more honesty.

But mostly it's about boys.

She had told me that she was totally "boy crazy" when she was a kid, but by crazy I thought she meant crazy. I didn't know she meant CRAZY. Like Jane Austen boy crazy — where every thought and action, every reason to exist is all about the boy. Capturing the boy.

Here's a sample from the first entry: "I spent the night with Sara tonight. We blew it! We were at N. Dillons. We were at the gum machines when this adorable guy walked up. He started talking to us. Sara was in a daze. I thought he was a loony. It wasn't till he was gone that I realized that he was a absolute babe."

Two days later: "I'm developing a slight interest in Colby Whiteside. He is cute in a boyish way. I've seen him flirting with Ariel and it makes me mad. I want him to flirt with me."

One day later: "I think I can trust you now so I'll go ahead and tell you. I figure the best way is to just blurt it out. Damien Lewis and I were secretly going out. There it is. My deepest darkest secret. He would never admit it now but I swear to God it's true. I really think that I loved him."

FIVE MINUTES LATER: "I have so many infatuations. First there's Colby. I'm convinced that if he got to know me, he would like me as more than a friend. Then there is Steve. I used to believe what I tell people. That I don't like him but he's alright. Now I realize what a luscious babe he is."

Two days later: "Sara said it was just my period but I'm still looking for love and my period is over. Sara is being a brat lately."

This goes on for years. We sat on Erin's living room floor and read from her diaries all afternoon and evening. In one entry she was writing, with profound yearning, about the probability — the near certainty!— that she would get her first kiss the next day. She didn't. I asked, "When did you get it?" Her reply: "Four years later." I think the same thing happened to Jane Austen.

To see Erin's diary, the best thing on the whole damn Internet, go to Erin's blog