Honk if you're embarrassed for me

If there was ever a project tailor-made for me, it's got to be this one.

I have kept journals since I got one for my 8th birthday, and while I don't really write too much anymore (I have a blog, thank you!) they serve as a wonderfully detailed reminder of my awkward teenage years and the horrible boys that comprised them.

I have spent the last three nights re-reading my old diaries, flagging for possible submissions, and tonight started the scanning and sending process in the hopes that this book will help to fulfill my dream of one day being published. Even if I am mortified by what I wrote.

Because the object is to only submit writings that, to this day, still make the author cringe, I honestly can't even bring myself to share with you entire entries. No really, I can't. I am now permanently hunched over and tense with shame, unable to stop cringing at my embarrassingly unsophisticated junior high school self. (And I haven't even scanned in high school yet!) So instead I will just share with you this excerpt, taken from the seventh grade, when I boy I liked didn't want to "go out" with me.

I don't know whats worse - the Groovy Kind of Love reference (we slow-danced to it at a Bat Mitzvah) or his name in puffy paint on my, um, Keds. And toothbrush.

I need to stop now. I have officially shared too much.