My Teenage Years, Vol. II

Due to popular demand, here is another excerpt from one of my adolescent diaries. And when I say ‘popular demand’, I mean people keep telling me they want to laugh at me more.

Below is an entry I wrote on my first day of Year 11. It’s titled: ‘I am 16 and I have issues and the world judges me and fuck off while I listen to a bit more Hole and wear hoodies and too much eyeliner’.

Wednesday 2 February 2000

7.38am

I’m sitting here way too early for school but extremely comfortable, listening to my walkman*, and the only person here is Kate Wood, who everyone hates but me. I just find her slightly annoying… and here she comes to annoy me. I HATE PEOPLE SITTING NEXT TO ME! God I hate pretending I want to spend time with people when I just want to be ALONE! I’m just not going to talk to anyone this year. Hopefully this’ll stop really annoying people talking to me when I couldn’t care less if they flung themselves into oncoming traffic.

It’s now 8.28am and I’m sort of wishing someone else would come because I don’t want to talk to Kate because she smiles too much.

Am I serious? Am. I. Serious? That’s the end. Clearly I was a tortured soul. Was the term ’emo’ coined because someone met me at this very moment? I’m pretty sure the term ‘utter idiot’ was.

*Walkmans rock.

Advertisements

One response to “My Teenage Years, Vol. II

  1. on behalf of all readers, i think i can say: BIFFY WE WANT THE GOOD STUFF – like saying that boys you like are ‘sex beasts’ and other highly embarrassing things – you know when you had life or death fights with people or you ‘got’ with some guy. hahahah

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s