Private: How it really was

“I thought I was a fairly erudite and sensitive teen. It turns out I was a functional borderline case who thought only about boys,” a friend said, after reading her old journals this weekend.

I’ve been looking over mine, which also focused on boys and music, but had the added bonus of two-bit philosophy and terrible poetry and prose of my own creation. Below are excerpts, which you should read only if you are a masochist.

From some sort of tirade against stained glass windows:

…Close them off–trap them inside. They want windows? Give them colored specks of glass.

If a church ever had real windows, even the most blind believer would be affected by the incoming sunlight. Even on overcast days, the gloom outside would seem cheerful in comparison to the words of the mortician on the platform…”

From a “poem:”

Wind-up words
Coming out so fast
You miss the chattering teeth in between

She speaks
And you take it all too seriously
Once she rolls her eyes and smiles
You’re dead

From a “play:”

G: “Listen.”
B: “I’m listening.”
G: “You’re listening with that placating air you assume whenever you think a conversation is PMS-inspired.”
B: “Uh, I’m just listening.”
G: “Good. Well, I’ve been thinking…”
B: “You know how much I hate it when you preface a conversation with that phrase, especially in that tone.”
G: “Look, let’s just end it now.”
B: “End what now?”
G: “The whole thing.”
B: “The conversation, or the relationship?”….

Honestly, these aren’t even the worst of them. I was going to post the most horrible stuff, but I couldn’t type the words without retching.

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