My diaries (written as letters to a fictitious confidante, Diana - I'd been reading Anne Frank's diary to 'Kitty') from junior high and the first part of high school are falling apart. They're stained (soda? chocolate?), written in fading pencil on cheap notebook paper. So I'm typing them up, and it's painful to see how I was. I was an idiot, a little narcissist who thought everything was about me. Essentially, all the faults that bother me most, and that I feel I have worked hard to overcome, are on full display here. And yeah, I was twelve and a half, and that's what girls are like. But still.
One bright spot, as I was writing about a would-be suitor: "Then he said, 'You see, I want to know more about your life, however boring it may be.' I nearly died."
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