MussoLOLen is Always Right! |

My mom interrupted my packing to show me a very interesting find: proof that I was already an emo kid at seven years old! Either that or I must have been taking drugs disguised as candy and I didn’t realize it then.

I don’t remember writing this and I have absolutely no clue what the hell that last sentence meant. O_O According to my mom, I used to write her short notes at that age and in every note I would say that I had a “terreble day”. Good God. Aside from the fact that I was bullied by a couple of girls in the school bus, I vaguely remember that my childhood was a happy and normal one. Maybe that explains why I’m the way I am now. People can’t always be happy throughout their lives. Every single god-awful, weird thing that’s been happening to me lately must be payback for having an abuse-free childhood.

Ever since I met up with some grade three classmates a few days ago (whom I haven’t seen nor spoken to since I was eight!), I’ve been going on this weird nostalgic trip, rummaging through photo albums and hunting for old letters. I seriously regret burning my high school diaries and the circumstances in which it happened. When I was a kid I had this romantic notion that I’d give all my diaries to the man I wanted to marry so that he could have all of me and my neuroticisms. It was a very big deal to me, a gift more sacred than my virginity. Virginity is just a tiny piece of skin; any drunk frat boy can just snatch it away from you. But those diaries were records of my thoughts. My feelings. Forever preserved in paper because I had no friends to talk to back then.

When I thought I found the right guy, I did just that. I placed my diaries in a box and gave them to him. Instead of treasuring my gift, he suggested tossing them into the bonfire because he couldn’t stand to read about my past. Okay, I would understand why he might want to rip apart the diary where I wrote about my first boyfriend. I’m insanely jealous myself and I’d probably want to do the same thing had he kept a written record of his first relationship. But he didn’t even want to read about my childhood! I did what he said because I “loved him so much” and felt like shit afterwards. I think that’s when my romantic notions started dying.

Lesson of the story: you don’t know shit about love when you’re 18. Your boyfriend/girlfriend is probably a douchebag.

Words can’t describe how glad I am that my mom still kept my letters to her, even though I find them stupid and grammatically embarrassing. At least something I wrote from the last decade or so of my life still exists.

Back to packing! I love how I was too lazy to remove my clothes from last weekend’s Ilocos trip from my duffel back. That takes care of half the stuff I’ll be bringing. See? Sometimes being lazy is a good trait to have.