While I was KonMari’ing the crap out of my home a few weeks ago, I made a discovery.
My high school diary.
I didn’t have to ask if it brought me joy because of the gems inside, oh boy.
If you ever need to do a check to see if you have evolved?
Read any material that you have ever composed before the age of 17.
It really does loads for your self-esteem.
Speaking of low self-esteem, let’s read my diary!
I should state that as of late, I have been feeling a tiny bit disconnected from my teenager.
Like we aren’t on the same page.
Nothing major just little things that normal teens and parents go through but the discovery of this diary was definitely a morsel dropped down from the Lord himself.
Like a guidebook from Heaven to show me that I too also had no developed frontal lobe and that bad decision making isn’t just a way of life, it is also apparently genetic.
Disclaimer: the blurred words are not to protect any bad words I have written.
I have no problem sharing that on here as you well know.
No, those are last names of people I didn’t want to give publicity to.
Because I really didn’t think my sophomore year friends wanted their secret crushes aired for all of the world to see some 28 years later.
Or maybe they do in some weird Love Connection thing I am not going to be a part of, hence the blurred lines.
First, I loved a lot of men in my 10th-grade year.
Not in real life.
Oh hell no.
Only on paper and from across the room all stalker-like.
For ten or so pages I would profess my love for these “men” who really weren’t men at all.
I would stare at them in the halls, drool over them in study hall, actually convince myself that they probably liked me too and even believe when my friends said, “I TOTALLY HEARD HIM TALKING ABOUT YOU IN SIXTH PERIOD WORLD HISTORY!! SIGH!”
Then I would go home and draw big puffy hearts and profess my manchild love.
I would say in approximately 100 pages of this diary, 50 of them had the above written.
About ten different menchildren.
In one month I had three different menchildren I was squiring and when I say “squiring” I mean, looking at from afar in the lunchroom while eating my Nutty Bar.
I lived quite an exotic life.
Four pages of being sick.
Why did I find it necessary to take up four pages to write this?
I. Am. On. The. Edge. Of. My. Seat.
Whew, I am so glad I am finally on the mend.
How can I possibly hate school after not being there for an entire week??
If you have lost count, I am on manchild number five and we are only in February.
I feel another sick day coming on……
I need to show this to my teenager.
She has no idea what sheer boredom is.
Oh, I know what it is.
It is when you have to actually WRITE it in a diary.
Fast forward to May because I was really, really boring.
By the way, I had to blur out manchild #7’s name because he is now a prominent eye doctor back home.
But he WAS a dick in 1986.
Moral of the story: never let a dick get in the way of a good time.
That came out wrong.
I guess I needed time to think about it.
I finally danced with a “real” guy.
What was I dancing with before then??
And in the WORST anti-smoking campaign ever:
What. Tha. Frack.
I should have been a liner note writer for Whitesnake, WHAT IN THE FRESH HELL IS THIS??
There is a reason I only kept one diary in all of my childhood.
I wasn’t good at it.
If you excuse me, I will be apologizing to my teenager for being less understanding.
And I will have MY diary under my arm.