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.
On Degrassi:
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.
On heartbreak:
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.
Meaghan McGoldrick 
This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m actually crying
i like the scientific diagram of your heart being held together with band-aids.