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Lefron » May 21, 2005: When I buy a house, it won’t be symmetrical.
© 2010 lefron

May 21, 2005: When I buy a house, it won’t be symmetrical.

December 25, 1997, Age 8

We just opened our presents for Christmas. This was my present to open. Aunt Shannon gave it to me. I also got a radio, a bunkbed, and a ski gear for my American Girl-Dolls. From my Mamma and Dad. From Santa I got Pooh-Bear, Hanson (a C-D), and these really cool hair clips. From my Grandma, I got these Corduroy Overalls that are black, (and I’m wearing them) and a red velvet long-sleeve to go with the overalls. (They’re from the Gap). With the overalls I’m wearing a white T-shirt with bows on it, from Nana + Grandpa. They also got me a black T-Shirt. They also got me this beautiful (red) ring. (I’m wearing this too.) Oh yeah: Also from Santa, in my stocking, there was a beanie baby named Derby. She’s adorable! Pooh-Bear is absolutely huge! Pooh-Bear also came with a card game called Rook. It looks like fun. William got a Walky-Talky. I got three great books from Cyndy + Bim + Matthew. William is now pretending to be a guitar player in his new outfit. From Santa he got a race-car-track. It’s really cool. Right now I’m listening to my favorite song on Hanson. It’s called, MMMbop. Well, that’s all for now. T.T.F.N!! (Ta-ta for now)



Every so often I’ll pull out my old Diaries (I have three (well, three and a half if you count the ripped out pages from my first diary that are inserted into my second one); one that is covered in puppies, one that I glued pictures of Hilary Duff onto, and a simple black leather one–you can guess their order of appearance) and re-read entries from my past-self. I’ve never found anything grotesquely useful in the ways of advice or foretellings through psychological interpretations of my childhood mind, nor has it ever proposed insight to my present way of thinking. Until now (dun dun dunnn).

What is it about the innocence of a child that can capture any adult and force them to escape their stress and anxiety momentarily and simply devote their thoughts to the simplicity of communicating with our youth? I once argued it was their imagination; that I enjoyed the company of kids because anything could happen and perhaps I’d be able to flex my mind enough to explore the impossible once again. While this remains true, in my self-reflecting exploration of my Diaries, I found no magical stories or pictures of Neverland, nor fabrications of alternate universes or abstract animals. The furthest my entries ever ventured from the truth were exclamations of my hopes & dreams (there is NO non-cliché way to say that), and a trickle of my typical “what-ifs” (but mostly on the subject of boys boys boys).

I discovered recurring themes that recycled themselves from age 8 to 15; Boys I had crushes on, Those same boys who I grew to hate because they were clingy and annoying, Lists of things I bought while shopping (including pictures and diagrams), Lists of things I did that day (this is my favorite: PS, please imagine this entry as being included in this parentheses.

June 28, 1998 Age 9

Dear Noel,

I thought and decided to tell you of today. List of what I did.


That’s all I have to say. Goodbye! Oh, by the way, I start soccer camp tomorrow. Wish me luck!


Rachel Godbe )

Venting about people who were mean to me, More boys I liked, More dumping of boyfriends I grew to despise (lets keep in mind these were relationships based on recess-circular-communication and lasted 2 weeks or less), and always an ever changing font, Diary name, and signature. I asked my diary for advice as though it spoke back; I’d draw pictures and ask her (dear god, I still personify my Diary) “Which one do you like better? Ya I like the second one too.” I’d apologize to her after months of not writing, begging her to forgive me for being such a “crappy commitment person.” What really freaked me out was how much I have not changed. Have I not grown up at all? These recurring themes of my Diary are literally literary proof of events, opinions, and desires that have existed and repeated within & around me since I was a kid. I speak (by speak I mean write) the same way, think the same way, like the same basic activities… I suppose the way these traits are manifested has changed; the manner in which I portray who I am is highly altered from when I was a kid, and I’m more cautious and aware to whom I reveal my pages to.

How sad. How fucking sad that being an adult is simply hiding the pages of your 9 year old self under complexity. When I was 9, all of my entries were so fucking straightforward. I like this, I hate that, I had fun doing this today and tomorrow I want to try this. No bullshit, no maybes, just gut-powered honesty and truth. And now…I mean look at my blog. The essence of what I put behind my words is the most simple of thoughts, but it’s disguised with a seemingly-complex maturity and false literary track (SEE) in order to authenticate the childish point I’m trying to make.

This week I was standing outside a bar with a friend when some guy asked me what I love. My first answer was Everything (which is true, I do love everything even if I hate it). He asked me again, “No, what do you love?” I had two options. This guy seemed like a free-loving-Marley-bobber, so I could score points by listing artists from the 60s, waving my hands slowly as I talked in a smooth jazzy voice, telling him I love people and music, and yeaaaaah. Or, I could start listing whatever came to mind, risking drawing a blank (which I tend to do when I have to talk about myself, it’s like I literally forget my entire life and can’t remember anything) and only coming up with like two things and looking like a complete idiot. I went with the latter. “I love my friends, I love my family, I love acting, I love food, I love whiskey, I love (blanked here for a bit and looked in the sky as if for some sort of guidance, shook my head a bit and smiled, waved my arms like an idiot, and continued) I love blankets, I love swimming-” At this point “some guy” grew bored with me and asked for a group hug before he walked away. I, however, got really excited and told my friend we had to go dance ASAP. I told this stranger what I liked (or loved), he didn’t give a shit, and I couldn’t have felt better.

Obviously it is easier to be honest to the pages of a Diary who cannot respond to you. And obviously it would not be so lucrative to be completely honest in all aspects of my life. But Obviously, the honesty I divulged in with my Diary was self-indulgence; a passive way of being honest with myself. This is how children entice the adult world. They are honest with themselves in an entirely public manner; they’re untainted with influences and media garbage, virgin to the sexual innuendos that are caked on everything and anything, and oblivious to the hierarchy that is our society. Once those boundaries are discovered, once we are limited to our truths by the falseness (both materially and figuratively) of maturity, it’s easy to forget the simplicity of our stories. It’s easy to forget to exclaim your love, get over mistakes, forgive apologies, and be yourself.

There’s one entry in my second Diary that I bookmarked after my first reflectory (made that word up) sesh. I go back and read it every once and a while, wondering if my 15 year old self knew I’d need a simple, blunt, unembellished reminder:

December 25, 2004, Age 15

Dear Diary,

Merry Christmas Rachel. You’re beautiful the way you are. I love all of you. You are an amazing person with likeable qualities. To succeed, you need to improve as a person, not as an image. As you grow, that concept will get easier to grasp. I promise.



It’s certainly easier to grasp, but Rachel, it’s way fucking harder to let go.

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