November 22nd, 2016

There’s this thing I know about you where you like to read things I have written from when I was much younger. I hope you’re enjoying reading some of what I’m writing at this point in time – now that I’m older. I fear it’s probably just as pointless as it ever was but I think that’s partly what you enjoy: the absolute, senseless banality. Maybe it’s relatable, maybe you can hear my voice in my writing and that tickles you, maybe it feels good to get a little inside someone else’s head. I do not know.

Anyway. Knowing how much you enjoy reading stuff from my youth, I did a little  rummaging and starting browsing through my old journals and schoolwork and whatnot.  Some of it is so awful and boring that I end up skipping through a lot and just read a paragraph here and there to see it’s improved at all. Generally it has not. And most of it I find tremendously embarrassing.

My face has turned red reading some of the vain, self-involved drivel I have written. I mean, good lord. How can you date this?

Some of it… I mean… why? Why on earth did I think this was worth writing about? Here, please, let me give you an example:

Dated 04.07.10 (it took a lot of flipping through this particular journal to realize this date is July 7th, 2004. That would put me at seventeen years old.) The entries before and after complain about having to decide at such a ripe young age what is going to happen with the rest of my life. I talk about travelling, how I want to take a gap year and “get an education first hand, from personal experiences”. About feeling obligated to go to University. This stuff is mildly interesting just because of where and who I am now. But then… then I write this:

There is something you should know about my family, well actually it’s not that you should know, but it’s something I wish to get off my chest and into this book. Why? Who knows? I know I don’t. Anyway they ALL like jalapenos, and none of them have qualms about passing gas – my family that is – in any way, shape or form. This is an incredibly uncomfortable predicament for an in-the-closet farter like myself. You see, while they feel free to displeasure others in a discomforting manner, polite people, such as myself – are left to suffer in silence. In so many different ways.

As I mentioned earlier, they all love jalapenos, and if one knows anything about anything, one will know that these dangerous peppers stink before, during, and after digestion.

COMPLETE AND TOTAL TORTURE FOR ONE WITH STRONG OLFACTORY SENSES -SUCH AS MYSELF.

Anyway, I had more stuff to complain about but I’ve forgotten it all…

Literally. Verbatim. With the same punctuation and caps lock.

Is that not the most vain, pompous, unfortunate thing to find in a journal? Can we just talk about how entirely bothered I am by other people’s gas? So bothered that I literally took the time to write about it in a journal. So bothered that after writing about other people’s gas, I literally forgot what else I wanted to write about. So bothered that I complain about how “incredibly uncomfortable” it is for me to be me near people who fart. This holier-than-thou attitude because of my strong sense of smell. This holier-than-thou attitude because I am polite – unlike everyone else – and I don’t “displeasure” others. This holier-than-thou attitude because I am an “in-the-closet farter”. Ok, what does that even mean? Does that mean I only fart in the closet? Or am I closeted about farting?

Now let’s also consider the fact that I’m talking about everyone in my family liking jalapenos. Clearly I’m the black sheep here. “Wah wah, everyone likes jalapenos except for me so I’m going to go sit in my corner where the cool kids sit with their peanut butter and honey sandwiches because at least I don’t have smelly gas like those smelly people who eat that smelly food.”

Lina. I am insufferable.

I was then and I still am now, because apart from the fact that I like jalapenos, everything else in that entry rings true now, twelve years later.

Do you know what else is insufferable? Several entries in this journal are written in mirror image. As in, each letter is backwards and each line is written from right to left and the easiest way to read it is to haul your ass over to a mirror and read it there instead. What’s truly insufferable is that I talk about even more boring stuff. If I’m going to take the time and effort to write in some kind of code, the least I can do is make it interesting for whoever figures it out. I talk about living only once and why don’t we live more than once? And maybe we do, but how would we ever know? And oh my god. It is so boring and tedious and one has to either strain to read it or read it in a literal, actual mirror.

But that’s not all. Wouldn’t want anyone actually understanding what the hell I’m saying or figuring out there’s a pattern in the so-called code I write, so I started switching it up. I’d write in mirror image in one entry and then the next I would write upside down and then the next entry I would write one line in mirror image and the next upside down and the next right side up.

So annoying.

diary
This is obviously the face and look of a shithead who would write a self-absorbed diary entry about her family’s farts.

 

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