What you say

I was reading my first journal the other day (from age nine to fourteen), reminiscing on who I once was and what I once knew. Mostly, the first half of it contains details about the day, such as what I wore, who liked whom at school, where we walked to, and what we ate. Mostly, the last half of it contains professions of love for the Backstreet Boys, and claims to commit suicide for the stress of not hearing "Everybody" on the radio in the last week. Throughout, I constantly update myself on who I like, who’s on my "like list," like Kyle Hollingsworth and Adam Lance and James Marsden. Some remain for a year, some fleet in and out like turtles rising to the surface for a gulp of air. But I also wrote some surprising things, like this on Saturday, June 20, 1998: “Tonight we went to Anchor Inn for supper and there was a young couple behind us—teenage, I mean. They were sort of arguing, but weren’t yelling, weren’t giving each other angry looks, were just questioning the other’s actions. I sat there, listening, and thought ‘I can’t wait until I can have that kind of “best friend” relationship with a guy. It’ll be so much fun.’ I can’t place myself in that situation—not yet. But, I’m longing for that day, and until then—I dream.” 

Well, I can tell you that I’m living that thirteen-year-old’s dream.