When I was nine years old, my parents bought me a diary for my birthday. Considering how much I've always loved to write, I was pretty terrible at keeping up with it. There are only about two dozen entries from the time I was nine until I turned seventeen.
Nine years old:
Doug H. acted up in class until my best friend Nikki was moved away so he could sit next to me, and I could be a good influence on him.
Or "We went to the movies, and then we went shopping, and I felt like a mother because I had to hold Jenny's coat."
Ten years old:
New Year's Eve: "We had a party, and I roller skated until 1:00 in the morning."
-> Ha. Roller skates.
One month later, "My brother left the ice cream scoop in the ice cream and it froze shut."
->Clearly, this was a tragedy.
On my eleventh birthday: "Today, I got a slip, a role of tape and three pair of socks. I think they were dumb presents."
-> Let that be a lesson to parents everywhere.
Later that week: "Jon D. called me a Freaky French Fry, and I called him a Scaredy Carrot because he thinks he's so hot, but he really is a squirt."
-> Sorry, Jon.
|Looks like I lived in a war zone, doesn't it?|
And then, when I was twelve: "Mom stopped smoking."
My mom was one of those people who had smoked since she was a teen. Stopping was really hard for her, and I remember being proud that she managed it.
Nine months later: "Mom started smoking again."
My mom tried to quit smoking on and off most of her life. She passed away in 2010. Cancer. Stupid cigarettes.
When I was seventeen, I had a Creative Writing teacher who was very enthusiastic about my writing. I wanted to loan him some books I loved. My sister said, "That is very nerdy." The teacher ended up having a heart attack and not coming back to school, so I never did.
Pets I loved.
Movies I'd seen.
Winning two Big Macs and a Coke at McDonalds.
Some things I remember vividly. Others I don't.
I'm not the same person as I was then. That's just fine with me.