You know, I’ve mellowed out a little in my old age.
As obsessive and neurotic as I can be about having every little detail just the way that I want it (as elaborated on in The Christmas Tree Incident), yesterday I unearthed some proof that my square piece condition used to be worse.
(By the way, it wasn’t until this morning that I realized I had written yesterday’s blog, but never hit the “publish” button. Whoopsie. So today is a twofer.)
I had thought it might be nice to include a picture of young Square Piece all decked out for school, but instead, in all my rummaging around for that, I unearthed one of my sixth grade notebooks from Language and Spelling class.
It’s terrifying. I’m utterly ashamed of myself.
There was one post in particular when I was going on and on and on about all the things that “bug me.” (Most of the time, our mandatory writing was prompted with a topic. I’m not sure if this was my call or the teacher’s.) Here goes…
“What really bugs me is when I have to take out the dog in the morning and he runs away and I have to chase him. It bugs me when my [sister’s] just putting on makeup with the door shut and locked. And I really have to go.”
Okay. Fair enough. So far so good. But then I got psycho:
“It really bugs me when someone is wearing a ‘flowerdy’ shirt and where the shoulder part and the sleeve connect there’s two different flowers smushed together. I just want to rip it off.”
Whoa there, Eleven Year Old Square Piece! Save your strength! There happen to be more important crises in the world than whether or not the flower patterns perfectly align on a blouse!
But then, unbeknownst to me, the budding hairstylist who was yet to emerge revealed herself:
“It really bugs me when I’m sitting behind someone and a couple of hairs are sticking up everywhere.”
Eleven Year Old Square Piece, you poor, unfortunate soul, let me suggest you read Why I Cut My Pastor’s Hair. *sigh* Some things never change I guess.