“On summer hoidays I went golfing and played 18 holes I did very good you where suposed to get the lowest you could get I got 75, my sister got 76 and my brother got 80.”
Oh journal entries. Man, did I hate journals in school. Which was a problem because I was unfortunate enough to be raised in The Era of Self-Esteem Promotion. Ugh. Every teacher I had from grade 3 to grade 10 tried to get me to write my secrets and feelings and troubles in a notebook that I was assured would only be read by them. Pfft. So in primary school, my response to this request was to write the mundane details of what I did in a day. In middle school I wrote equally bland paragraphs about the beach, my dog, or the colour of the sky at night. One teacher interpreted these paragraphs as me being sad and unnecessarily angsty; she went on to make it her life mission to get the sadness and angst out of me. Clearly she didn’t have teenagers; get the sadness and angst out of a 13 year old? Come on lady.
By highschool, my brain felt like it was going to cave in on itself every time the word ‘journal’ came up. I’m not the feelings type. I mean I have them, but I don’t usually like to talk about them. I’m not a hugger and while I support the idea of therapy, I’ve never met a therapist I haven’t wanted to punch in the face. That’s just me. Journals, especially forced journals, make me vomit. Time wasted that could be better spent reading, drawing, or in the case of highschool, smoking pot.
And before you say it, blogging is not journal-ing. Well, not in this case. Ezmy doesn’t journal. She rants and resolves.