Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
This afternoon I spent a bit of time digging through the old cedar chest in which I store all my ancient journals and other personal-history documents. The chest originally belonged to my grandmother -- I had it shipped to me in Boston from Florida, I wanted it so bad -- and is easily big enough to store a body in (not that she ever did... to my knowledge). So you can imagine how much stuff we're talking about, from childhood diaries to handwritten notes passed back and forth in class (do kids even do this anymore?) to college papers to neatly typed novel outlines I composed while on temp jobs.
I'd gone into the history chest -- which is no small task, as all my heaviest art and photo books normally sit on its lid -- looking for a diary entry I wanted to cite in something else I'm working on. Digging through this stuff is always a weird experience, as so much of it I have forgotten entirely, and have to take my past self at her word that the events in the journals really did happen and that I did, in fact, author a short story about a lonely wallaby trapped in a zoo exhibit when I was 13, and that it was HEARTBREAKING.
Oh, and evidently I briefly dated a guy named Adam when I was 14, who would "dump" me at the movie theater in the Luria's shopping plaza, for a girl I called "buttugly Kristen." Adam also had a friend named Jacen whom I called Bacon (I'm assuming it rhymed? I really don't know). I remember none of these individuals. But it certainly seems I was not always so charming as I am today.
Aside from all that, in this particular archeological dig I also uncovered the following entry in a diary from summer of 1992, and it is EASILY, EASILY the most embarrassing thing I have ever put on the Internet (which would be more impressive if I didn't have pretty strict standards about these things). I'm gonna show it to you, and then I'm gonna transcribe it, because apparently today I feel like mercilessly crushing some boundaries or whatever.
Aaaaarrrrggghhhh. It reads: "PS - I sent in 'Electricity' [the name of some story I'd written, likely a sad one in which some bullied misunderstood girl probably get electrocuted or something] to the Sassy [Magazine] Fiction Contest. I know it won't win I know it won't win I know it won't win but what if it does I'll just SCREAM and DIE and FAINT and SCREAM and I'll yell 'I DON'T BELIEVE IT I can't believe it AAAAAIIIEEEE!' but I'll be modest."
Apparently Sassy had a fiction contest in June of 1992, which I also don't remember. And apparently I wanted to win it. (I didn't.) And apparently I was at the time, like all teenagers, a hilarious asshole with my "but I'll be modest" comment. AND I totally foresaw the popular usage of caps for emphasis and a disregard for punctuation to indicate excitement. But enough about what a brilliant teenager I was. What kind of brilliant teenager were you? Does anyone else meticulously keep their diaries around just to remind themselves of what dorks they were?
PS -- I realized this happened TWENTY YEARS AGO and I now need to go lie down for a little while.