This a journal entry I wrote in High School, detailing a morning in the life of teenage me. It's kind of funny. And still kind of true in some ways!
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
No. I threw my hand to turn off my alarm clock. I missed. Slowly, I raised it again, and let my limp arm fall. Again. And again. And again. There. Got it. I just wanted a little longer. Too . . . comfortable. . . .warm. . . . .dreams. . . . .
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Fine, I would get up this time. I found my cell phone with my eyes closed to turn off the alarm, and laid back on my pillows, remembering my dreams, trying to finish them. Every night, I would get about ¾ through a dream, and then, have to wake up. Where was I . . . . . . hmmm. . . . . .I had dreamed of a boy. Which one? Hmm. Oh yeah. Peter. That’s peculiar. I barely even know Peter. Never talk to him. Hmm. Odd. Oh well, he’s tall, handsome enough, and was very nice in my dream. So, what were we doing in the dream. Hmm. I sorted through every detail I could remember, and found nothing. There must be something. Yes-lunch, pizza, lunch ladies, hmm. That’s not worth much. I threw it away, and decided to get up. This decision woke me suddenly, and I threw my leg up as far as I could, pulled it down to passé position, and then quickly jumped out of bed. I know. I have a very peculiar waking-up process. Here I am dead asleep, or trying to be, but as soon as I decide to be awake, I am, and I nearly always strike strange dance poses somewhere between there.
Now then. What to wear, what to wear. Hmm. I should probably put a shirt on before my mom opens my door to make sure I am awake. Or even worse-before my brother opens my door. Ha. That would be bad. Very bad indeed. I turned to my close in contemplation of my chronic dilemma of what to wear. It’s true, that my closet is full of shirts, but, I easily think of a problem or two with each one, and find that I have nothing to wear. So I just grab one at random, put it on, only to take it off and put it back. “I’ll just have to start out with pants today, then,” I mutter to myself angrily. Everyday, I go through this same routine of finding clothes to wear. Heaven’s sake! People are out there starving and naked, and I can’t find a single shirt of much too many, to wear to just another day of high school. So I trudge back, grab the one I had tried already, throw on some jeans, and walk full of dread to the bathroom.
I stare hopelessly back at myself in the mirror. “Why?” I question myself. “Why, everyday, do all the girls go to their bathrooms, to tug, curl, rub, paste, and paint all over themselves, just to make ourselves “hot”, so that boys will like us, then dump us, and make us more miserable than we started out in the first place?” I thought about this for a moment. Blank. No answer. Oh well. I might as well just follow the herd.