A Dialog With My 13 Year Old Self

So, 13, yesterday I was throwing out some stuff in the attic and I found the diary you kept 50 years ago.  I’m a little bit appalled  confused about some of the things in there.

 Listen 63, I’m not stupid.  I saw you wanted to use the word “appalled.”  And that diary had a lock on it, anyway.  It’s private.

 Uh, sorry, but really, that lock was pretty chintzy and the entire inside came out of the binding.  But some of the things you wrote sounded crazy.  My point is that my memory of my life is completely different from what you wrote.

 That happens at your age.  But give me an example.

 I’ll ignore that remark.  Like boys.  You seem to be obsessed with boys beyond all reason.   Charlie M, for example.  You said you loved him.  No, you said you LOVED him.  On like every page.  You called him your ONE TRUE LOVE.  You wrote hearts with “R and C.”  You had things flying around with wings.  But I never even went out with him.  I don’t think I ever even spoke to him.  Actually, I was terrified of him.

 Those things were symbolic representations of our souls uniting for eternity.  And anyway, I’m 13.  And it’s 1960.  Would you rather I try out for that “Teen Moms” reality show?

 Point taken.  OK, Let’s talk about junior high.  You wrote, “I LOVE WAGNER!”  and then went on and on about it being amazing and incredible.  You talk incessantly about getting into the right “crowd” and who spoke to you and who didn’t.  You actually drew diagrams to show where people sat at the restaurant after school.  There were arrows showing where everyone was in relation to you.   And why were most of the girls named “Ellen?”  Listen, the only thing I remember about junior high was that it was the worst year of my life.  I mean the worst.

 People your age tend to forget things.  Like names.  I’d think everyone being named “Ellen” would help you.

 You’re getting out of line, here.  OK, let’s switch to the whole sex making out thing. Tell me about the “fabulously wonderful make out party at Larry’s Bar Mitzvah.”  You wrote about “4 French kisses with Steve” like it was a good thing.  Now, this is something I do remember.  Steve was two years older then me.  He wasn’t cute.  He sat down next to me, leaned over and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I was seriously repulsed.  It took me years to get over it.

 I’ll concede on that one.  What next?

 You say terrible things about some people.  I mean, really terrible.  Catty, catty, catty.  Is that a 13 year old thing?  I remember myself being a nice person.

 Then you forgot how your friend Kathy dumped you because you said such awful things to people.

 Damn, I forgot about that.  I can see I’m not getting anywhere with this.  I just can’t help but think that a lot of the stuff you wrote in the diary was simply meant to sound dramatic or cool, without giving much thought to the truth. 

I’m getting sort of tired of your picking on me. Can you put me back in that box in the attic, please?  I’m not really comfortable with having my life held up to your scrutiny.   If you can do better, have at it.  You’re way too old to have a diary, so go start a blog.  Write whatever you want to, whatever it is that people your age care about.  Like walkers.  Or long term health insurance. 

You’re a mouthy little thing.  I wasn’t that way at your age. 

Aaaargh, here we go again.  Please, take me back to the attic. 

Can’t be soon enough for me.