Speaking of my 7th grade self....

So I skipped my swim tonight, but only because I made the agreement with myself that I would work on unpacking my basement (more on that another time). Because I am in no particular hurry, and because I do not see myself repacking anytime soon, I have the luxury of being able to do this at a leisurely pace, stopping to examine various unearthed treasures. I found something so awesome that I was compelled to cease and desist all other activities in order to come tell you, my three (count 'em, 3) readers.

Was it a thousand bucks? No. An Antique Roadshow-worthy pocket watch? Um, no. The body of Jimmy Hoffa? Ok, now there's no way to go from this except down.

Hell.

I found my first "serious" journal, the volume of pages that recorded every single minute detail of my existence from May 5, 1995 to August 19, 1996. This book walks through high school graduation, the summer before college as well as my entire freshman year. Events are recorded with painstaking detail and are dripping with the melodrama you'd expect from a seventeen year old female. Senior Prom, a trip to Europe, a white water rafting trip few will forget, and boy after boy after boy after boy

Dear God, I even tried my hand at poetry.

The excerpt that made me race up the stairs and start tapping away was written while I was on a trip to Europe sponsored by my youth orchestra. No international trip would be complete without a bit of romance, and as such I found myself caught up in a flirtation with a certain 17 year old bass player before the wheels of the plane left U.S. soil. For page after page after page I faithfully recorded every word of every conversation between the two of us as we toured eastern Europe. I waxed poetic about how I felt, what I thought he may feel, what others may feel about us feeling the way we feel. You get the jist. During these entries my cursive was very fluid and romantic, as it was clearly an extension of my mood.

Then, all the sudden, the melodrama stops, as does the flowing, loopy penmanship. The following entry was written, no scribbled, on July 16, 1995 at 10pm:

"Mental note: Never give into temptation! NEVER USE NAIR AGAIN! When ever you spot it in the store and think, "Man that'd be really convenient!" PASS RIGHT BY!! DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS, IT AIN'T WORTH IT!

yikes!

The next entry shows that it's back to business, with a reemergence of the loopy handwriting and the waxing of the poetic.

I heart 17 year old Khop.

Melodramatically,

khop

PS: the other piece of note that just begged for a mention was the second entry, written on May 14, 1995. It begins with this: "Sigh. Dean Cane doesn't even know I exist." Don't you just wanna give 17 year old me a big hug....followed by a big smack upside the head? I kinda do....