To That Last Reader, Hopefully Hanging On (Or Hanging On, Hopefully)

I mentioned once, long ago, I promised to tell a story. A beautiful story, about a girl who rediscovers her very first piece of writing, composed lovingly, innocently, once upon a time in a kitten-covered diary. A story about how her emotions were wrung as she tenderly turned each pink page, knowing that here, in her hands, she held the beginning, the birth of a love, the dawning of something bigger and brighter than the girl herself.

That story's boring. If I wrote a book on my writer's genesis it would say, in its entirety, "Couldn't spell. Poorly crafted sentences. Author has demonstrated markedly little progress in recent years." Whatever story I thought I was writing contained nothing but errors and a rushed anecdote about a fish flipping its way out of the water and landing on my sister's feet. Frankly, finding that singular crumpled entry so many years ago did nothing but earn it a prized position in the throw-away box.  

Yes, I threw it away: finito, gone, good-bye. I disposed of the nostalgia. It may sound harsh, but trust me, no one is going to regret this, just like no one is going to regret that last month I threw away my old journals from high school. Why? Because no one wants or needs to read the profound thoughts of angsty fifteen-year-old. Least of all, me. 

I am a firm believer in closure. For instance, when my first boyfriend and I were separated for three months - such a long time! - we engaged in unbelievably long, unbelievably vapid daily correspondences that resulted in quite the pile of paper to pack in one person's suitcase. Granted, I was fortunate with my timing, because all this drivel came to an abrupt end when he informed me that he, having detected that I may not be spending each waking moment peering forlornly into the mailbox, had taken his teenage aggression out on his only momento of my love: a sweater that I had so lovingly given him to await my return. My only response was an enraged  "THAT WAS MY FAVORITE SWEATER!" (interruption: note that I'm fixated on the consequence of his actions on my belongings - that he destroyed my sweater - rather than on the implications of his actions - namely, that he's the kind of person who would destroy my sweater). So then I was free to dispose of all that paper. And that was that.

That was that. So. 

This is the part where I tell you that I'm ending my blog. 

It's over.