I never know what to do with myself on poker nights. It's one night a week that I have entirely to myself in this big empty house and I can't for the life of me decide what to do. I generally spend some time dilly-dallying around, straightening rooms that look too cluttered, wash dishes, and maybe fold laundry, but then I am left to stare at the pile of library books on the coffee table unable to decide what to read, or flip through the television channels for something interesting watch. When it's all said and done I usually end up here, on the internet, catching up on my friends page or trying to pull something semi-interesting to write about out of my very bored, sluggish mind. I have failed yet again.
During my little straightening ritual tonight I came across a few spiral bound notebooks that I used to scribble in through my teen years. It was like driving past a car accident--I couldn't look away. The writing was horrific, and it seems that I went through a very awkward stage in which I did not use the names of people or places, so even I am having a very hard time trying to decipher what I was saying and who it was about. The one thing that was blatantly obvious was that I was a wreck and 16-year-old girls should never have thoughts as gloomy and depressing as the ones I recorded. I can vaguely remember thinking that they were beautiful and insightful at the time, but almost 9 years later I am seeing the error in my ways. I can only say that I am so happy, relieved, and thankful that I was able to pull myself out of that 4 year funk. I don't know how I did it, but I'm thrilled.
I don't remember if I was aware of it at the time, but I found a few little notes from my friends hidden in the pages. Apparently my friends read my journal? Ha.
You still believe the world is a square and you've discovered how to crawl into a corner and stare, point, and laugh at the rest of us.
I used to wish I could crawl inside your head and discover what makes you recite such perfect paragraphs of wisdom. What inspires you to scribble jagged poetry in your random notebooks, but decided sometimes it's better not knowing why the stars shine.
I only wish they were perfect paragraphs of wisdom, but I suppose it was a time in our lives that we could not see beyond our high school graduation, so when a girl is ranting and raving about how terrible high school is and how awful classmates can be, it could have passed for wisdom. There wasn't anything more important or captivating in our world. It's just depressing that we chose to spend our time with our heads buried in overused notebooks, writing about how we were wronged in life instead of actively doing something about it. I can't help but think I could have put more effort into enjoying that time of my life. Of course, every page of my old journals seem to, in some way, reiterate that I was doing the best that I could.
My problems no longer revolve around my GPA and my social life or lack of. It seems I have graduated to more mature dilemmas such as what's for dinner and which book to curl up with. This is a stage in life that my 16-year-old self never saw coming. If only she had known that it could be this calm perhaps she would have come up for air more often.