Dear Notebook: a seventh-grader’s guide to abortion, Good Charlotte and the real world
Moving is hard. I knew that. I’ve seen Casper. I saw it coming.
What I didn’t see coming (besides the blizzard that fucked my U-Haul)?
It being ten times harder (times the square root) when you’ve got your own shit, your parents’ shit and their parents’ shit. Three months, 50-something garbage bags, 25 reinforced boxes and one 10×10 storage unit later and I’m finally kind of home. While some things didn’t make the move from storage (see: two 40-year-old lamps, evidence of my scrapbooking phase and my grandmother’s tax forms), others didn’t even make it past the curb of my parents’ house (see: my Smirnoff-stained senior prom dress, the 8×10 of me hugging a plastic tree and that portrait sketch of Hilary Duff).
Still, some made the dreadfully dragged out move and others even made the cut for our slightly cramped third story, three-bedroom apartment (see: Big Fat Liar on DVD, unidentifiable silver trays we think are coasters and my cat’s ashes).
There it was — amidst a striptease record and my dad’s old flask — my 2004-2009 journal. I had high hopes that I had stopped using it come high school but one mortifyingly mean top-eight list called “Reasons to hate [my first ex]” said otherwise. In case you’re wondering, number seven read “SKINNY” and number eight was left blank. Sorry, Peter.
Thankfully/unfortunately, most logs were written by seventh grade me. Here’s some very real (very embarrassing) posts about abortion, George Bush, heartbreak and Good Charlotte.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in these journal entries are those of 13-year-old me and do not reflect the opinions or official position of 22-year-old me. I can safely say — almost ten years later — I’m anti-George Bush, pro-choice and have no opinion either way on Joel and Benji Madden.
On war and abortion:
This got really real. On the next page I talk about The Simpsons.
I think I meant firetrucks.
On Good Charlotte:
I’ll spare you the lyrics. At least it wasn’t “My Bloody Valentine.”
On Elvis Presley and “blue sweade shoes”:
Points for the song title. Extra points for the spelling of suede.
Written in gel-pen, post-Peter.
And on a random page:
It’s 2014 and I’ve come full circle, this song still reigning as a college classic.
While two thirds of me wants to douse this book in lighter fluid, that last third is glad I gave a fuck about anything at thirteen (most notably things that weren’t sold at Claires or on my AIM profile). In the end I’m just happy I was too young to know the phrase, “You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on” and plaster it on the cover.
It did have another Good Charlotte quote.