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Retro Radio
Tuesday, November 16th, 2010 10:11 pmI alphabetized my books yesterday. They were getting out of control. I have three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which gives me a total of nineteen actual shelves and of those nineteen, fifteen hold books. I realized that something had to be done when I couldn't remember what Kerouacs I owned and when I realized that I own two copies of the same edition of the same book. I was going to group by subject matter and author, but got sick of the mess halfway through, and did straight-up author last name only, with the exception of my "special collections," like Star Wars books, graphic novels, and oversized books that only fit on certain shelves.
I still have to find a better system for my notebooks. I have a smaller bookshelf next to my desktop that has grammar books, English textbooks, reference books, and notebook upon notebook of handwritten notes and rough drafts. I'm not sure how to attack these yet. I carry notebooks around so that I have something to scribble an idea down in when it hits, which is great, except that one notebook might contain five poems (only one of which doesn't completely make me cringe), an angry rant about those stupid roller-skate sneakers, two chapters from a dystopian epic, and 3/4 of an essay about public urination etiquette. Outside of ripping pages out and stuffing them in folders or something, I'm not sure how to organize everything.
I did move my personal diaries onto a shelf in my room though. It felt right. I killed a few hours just looking though them. The oldest one was started in 1999. I was twelve. It was a surreal experience, translating my appalling handwriting and grammar. I don't look through my old diaries very often. I've thought about destroying them on more than one occasion, but I always stop short of pitching them; I think in anticipation of nights like last night.
It was almost like reading letters from a stranger. I can remember being that girl and doing those things and writing in that little blue notebook, but I find myself incapable of feeling the same feelings that I know that I felt when I was writing in it.
All in all though, I was a real sweet kid. Naive. Oh my god so naive. My first boyfriend kissed me on the cheek for the first time on Wednesday, July 28, 1999 and I freaked out and wrote that I was worried he would want to start holding hands or kissing on the lips. This is in direct contrast to an entry from another notebook, entry dated Tuesday, August 29, 2006: Mike came over to watch American Psycho, but we had sex instead. I think this fuck buddy thing might work out.
Apparently, at nineteen, I was still naive...just a different kind of naive.
But aside from the cringing, and the blushing, and the thinking, "Wow, self, you were such a little weirdo," I found myself nursing a reluctant fondness for my freaky little twelve-year-old self. We're pretty different people, she and I, but we have quite a bit in common too (besides an unhealthy love for run-on sentences):
Monday, June 19, 1999.
Mom came home from work mad today and didn't talk to Daddy when he got home either. She didn't talk to anyone at dinner and when Daddy asked her what was wrong she said that we just make her life pure hell. No one said anything after that and Booger went to go watch Beetleborgs on TV and I went to go practice my clarinet until Mom said to be quiet. Daddy said to let me practice and Mom got mad and said we should just go off and be our own happy little family without her since we never care what she wants anyway and then she left and didn't come back for a long time.
Sometimes I wish we WOULD just go be a family without her, like Jackie's dad did. They're really happy even though they don't live with her mom anymore except on the weekend sometimes. I told Daddy that it would be okay if he wanted to take me and Booger and get an apartment like Jackie's dad did, but he said I shouldn't say that about my mom.
Sometimes I don't like my mom and then I feel bad about it, but I don't think she likes me either so maybe it's more fair that way.
Poor kid. I'd offer her a beer but I know she wouldn't take it. The entry preceding that one was all about how D.A.R.E. stands for Drug and Alcohol Resistance Education and "it's this class that we have to take so that we don't do drugs and mess up our lives." I giggled my way through the entire entry because there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in it.
Wednesday, May 24, 1999
...so now that I know better, I'm going to be very upset with myself if I'm an alcoholic when I grow up.
Oh, twelve-year-old self, you're too precious for this world.
I still have to find a better system for my notebooks. I have a smaller bookshelf next to my desktop that has grammar books, English textbooks, reference books, and notebook upon notebook of handwritten notes and rough drafts. I'm not sure how to attack these yet. I carry notebooks around so that I have something to scribble an idea down in when it hits, which is great, except that one notebook might contain five poems (only one of which doesn't completely make me cringe), an angry rant about those stupid roller-skate sneakers, two chapters from a dystopian epic, and 3/4 of an essay about public urination etiquette. Outside of ripping pages out and stuffing them in folders or something, I'm not sure how to organize everything.
I did move my personal diaries onto a shelf in my room though. It felt right. I killed a few hours just looking though them. The oldest one was started in 1999. I was twelve. It was a surreal experience, translating my appalling handwriting and grammar. I don't look through my old diaries very often. I've thought about destroying them on more than one occasion, but I always stop short of pitching them; I think in anticipation of nights like last night.
It was almost like reading letters from a stranger. I can remember being that girl and doing those things and writing in that little blue notebook, but I find myself incapable of feeling the same feelings that I know that I felt when I was writing in it.
All in all though, I was a real sweet kid. Naive. Oh my god so naive. My first boyfriend kissed me on the cheek for the first time on Wednesday, July 28, 1999 and I freaked out and wrote that I was worried he would want to start holding hands or kissing on the lips. This is in direct contrast to an entry from another notebook, entry dated Tuesday, August 29, 2006: Mike came over to watch American Psycho, but we had sex instead. I think this fuck buddy thing might work out.
Apparently, at nineteen, I was still naive...just a different kind of naive.
But aside from the cringing, and the blushing, and the thinking, "Wow, self, you were such a little weirdo," I found myself nursing a reluctant fondness for my freaky little twelve-year-old self. We're pretty different people, she and I, but we have quite a bit in common too (besides an unhealthy love for run-on sentences):
Monday, June 19, 1999.
Mom came home from work mad today and didn't talk to Daddy when he got home either. She didn't talk to anyone at dinner and when Daddy asked her what was wrong she said that we just make her life pure hell. No one said anything after that and Booger went to go watch Beetleborgs on TV and I went to go practice my clarinet until Mom said to be quiet. Daddy said to let me practice and Mom got mad and said we should just go off and be our own happy little family without her since we never care what she wants anyway and then she left and didn't come back for a long time.
Sometimes I wish we WOULD just go be a family without her, like Jackie's dad did. They're really happy even though they don't live with her mom anymore except on the weekend sometimes. I told Daddy that it would be okay if he wanted to take me and Booger and get an apartment like Jackie's dad did, but he said I shouldn't say that about my mom.
Sometimes I don't like my mom and then I feel bad about it, but I don't think she likes me either so maybe it's more fair that way.
Poor kid. I'd offer her a beer but I know she wouldn't take it. The entry preceding that one was all about how D.A.R.E. stands for Drug and Alcohol Resistance Education and "it's this class that we have to take so that we don't do drugs and mess up our lives." I giggled my way through the entire entry because there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in it.
Wednesday, May 24, 1999
...so now that I know better, I'm going to be very upset with myself if I'm an alcoholic when I grow up.
Oh, twelve-year-old self, you're too precious for this world.
