Wednesday, January 31


A goal of mine for a couple weeks now was to divvy the crammed-so-full clothes from the one dresser Jon and I share to the empty second dresser in our room. Why I didn't do this when we moved in is beyond me.

My trusty underwear drawer provides a greater service than containing the crumpled, squished cotton undies I reserve for those special monthly occasions. Beneath the mounds of varying under garments lies (lie? lay? lays? Josh?) the journal I've contributed to intermittently since junior high. Not an entry since 1998, I've chronicled the many degrees of my preteen angst, the admission of my first kiss, the sheer horror of a girlfriend losing her virginity in a car, my early twenties, and the many things in between. One entry included the introduction of my new friend Molly and how I hoped to be friends for a long, long time.

This brings me to a delightful occasion practiced once monthly in the great borough of Brooklyn. Not only do my paternal people come from that part of the far east, this takes place there. How incredibly kick ass to take part in such an airing of one's awkward years. Total group therapy. For those of us not fortunate enough to attend the sessions, the gal who started this particular gathering is now working on a book.

Am I brave enough to share these newly found writings publicly? Not yet. But I'm sure my sappy pubescent ramblings of how hot Scott Rogers was in 1987, and how he looked at me 27 times in one month, may peak someone's interest.

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