I. Am. Mortified.

On a recent trip home, my mother gave me a pile of old belongings to go through to see what I wanted to keep and what she could pitch. Treasure of treasures, my diaries from age 11-15 were in that pile! Oh, the humiliation. I thought they were lost for sure, and now I'm not sure if I'm relieved that they aren't out there in the hands of someone else, or mortified that I now feel compelled to go back and read them. I think mortified is it, because, you see.....I wrote poetry. Yes, twelve-year old poetry. Pages and pages of it. Mom, if you already read it (which I totally would have if I were you) I hope you don't love me less.

I thought it might be fun to sprinkle a few of those gems here now and again, for your reading pleasure. Since you are all my dear friends (I think, cause who else would be reading this???), I thought I would dedicate this first one to you. It is called "True Friends". I will transcribe it as it is on the page, but please try and imagine wide, looping handwriting to make this experience as authentic as possible.

Ready?

True Friends (written circa 1988)

Friends can't

wait to see each-

-other. They don't

care what you

look like, where

you live or what

you wear.

They love you

just the way you

are. They don't

love you becau-

-se of your car,

your taste or your

hair. They love

you just the way

you are.

I know. It's good stuff.

But before you get too hopeful, let me end with a bit of a warning to you, just in case you are taking life, and the friends who love you for the way you are, for granted. My young self would also like you to know (from the very next page of the diary, no less):

Life is forever

if you play

your cards

right. But if you

start to bluff

it could be

ended tonight.

I have NO idea what that is supposed to mean, but it's pretty dark! Or possibly religious? Hmmm, this is going to be extremely painful for me..... and also fun. Hope you like.