I Think I Write What's

We All Stood And Gathered Our Backpacks And I Looked At The Floor Around My Chair To Make Sure I Hadn’t Dropped Anything. I Was Terrified Of Unwittingly Leaving Behind A Scrap Of Paper On Which Were Written All My Private Desires And Humiliations. The Fact That No Such Scrap Of Paper Existed, That I Did Not Even Keep A Diary Or Write Letters Except Bland, Earnest, Falsely Cheerful Ones To My Family (we Lost To St. Francis In Soccer, But I Think We’ll Win Our Game This Saturday; We Are Working On Self-portraits In Art Class, And The Hardest Part For Me Is The Nose) Never Decreased My Fear.

Ironically, Writing A Novel Is Not A Way To Sort Out Your Confusion.

I Just Think That People Are Complicated, Both Men And Women. It Happens That I Write More About Women.

..and I Thought How Liking A Boy Was Just The Same As Believing You Wanted To Know A Secret - Everything Was Better When You Were Denied And Could Feel Tormented By Curiousity Or Loneliness. But The Moment Of Something Happening Was Treacherous. It Was Just So Tiring To Have To Worry About Whether Your Face Was Peeling, Or To Have To Laugh At Stories That Weren’t Funny.

I Guess In Life I Find People Who, At First Glance, Appear To Be Very Typical Or Average, Whatever That Means, And Then Turn Out To Have Hidden Qualities.