Cheesy Poetry and Hoffa

I cleaned my room today. It was one of those 'once a year' spring cleanings. Went through all my papers, dusted, cleaned out underneath my bed (by the way, Hoffa has been found. He was under my bed reading cheesy poetry I wrote when I was fourteen...he's doing fine, and looks great!), and organized my drawers in my many dressers. It felt good.

I had kept having this awful thought in the past week that if anything happened to me, it would absolutely suck to have to go through my room. And worse, what if a crime happens to me and CSI guys have to come through with their travel labs and do my room a comb over? If I wasn't already dead I would die of embarressment. I had notes from the fifth grade lying around, Sbarro reciepts from '02, tons of letters written but never sent, not to mention the awful poetry I had to pry from Hoffa's fingers. But now I feel relief and free to let whatever happen to me happen, whether it be a mafia hit or getting run over by a bike. I feel good.

Reading those notes from Jr. High made me laugh. I really thought I was deep back then. It turns out I was just really, really winy. But, you can't throw a rock in a Jr. High without hitting a winy teenager, so I refuse to think any less of myself than I already do. I came across a photo album I had put together when I was in a play. I was fourteen and the play was put on by the Theatre department at OBU. I was the youngest one in it.

I fit in. There I was in every picture with a smile beaming and looking perfectly comfortable. It was one of my best memories. I don't have alot from those days. I chose to accept that I wasn't that smart or talented. His words of hurt were louder than my voice telling me I was better than that. It never occured to me to believe in myself or to keep doing something that brought me happiness. The thought of failure paralyzed me. All those years wasted. Time can be such a mean s.o.b. It can be so long and then it can pass in a blink of an eye. Bastard.

But, I think we all have a story similiar to that. The difference is what we do with it. There are days that I turn back into the fourteen year old girl, but not many. 31 years old and finally growing into myself. Such a late bloomer, maybe my boobs will finally come in.

At the very least, I've come to like my voice. It's wiser and stronger. I'm also getting a bit more careful with my time. I'm still behind, but I figure I'll be some great underdog story that Hallmark can make into a movie with Kelly Martin starring as me. In the mean time I'll enjoy my sparkly clean room.