June 1, 2006
Why the hell can't I write anymore? We got our yearbooks yesterday. I have pretty hands when they are tanned. My hair is dirty.
(Author's note: As will become evident, in a few more days I would start a new notebook and it would again become difficult for me to share there, so the early pages will be dry and dull, as were the last pages of this notebook.
As I will mention later, my English teacher saw me writing a lot and suggested I keep a notebook for the summer that could be used for extra credit. I liked this idea very much as I wanted others to read my notebooks. I was desperate for understanding and was under the false impression that my English teacher, who I was to start adoring in the 11th grade, would read my notebooks and suddenly understand me, and would actually be able to magically help me with all of my problems. That was never to be the case as I became so self-conscious over her possibly reading my diary, that I barely wrote at all that summer. I felt like someone was peaking over my shoulder, but with ill intent, certainly not to help me. It would take me a while again to get my groove back as a diary writer, and pourer-outer of my soul and my pain. As the reader will later see, my instincts about Mrs. Chasan ended up being correct, but it would take me until college to get it).
(Author's note: As will become evident, in a few more days I would start a new notebook and it would again become difficult for me to share there, so the early pages will be dry and dull, as were the last pages of this notebook.
As I will mention later, my English teacher saw me writing a lot and suggested I keep a notebook for the summer that could be used for extra credit. I liked this idea very much as I wanted others to read my notebooks. I was desperate for understanding and was under the false impression that my English teacher, who I was to start adoring in the 11th grade, would read my notebooks and suddenly understand me, and would actually be able to magically help me with all of my problems. That was never to be the case as I became so self-conscious over her possibly reading my diary, that I barely wrote at all that summer. I felt like someone was peaking over my shoulder, but with ill intent, certainly not to help me. It would take me a while again to get my groove back as a diary writer, and pourer-outer of my soul and my pain. As the reader will later see, my instincts about Mrs. Chasan ended up being correct, but it would take me until college to get it).
posted by Grand Inquisitor at 2:30 PM
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