Dear Diary,
Em was going through her letters today. We both have kept boxes of correspondences from former pen-pals. She's chucking the ones that are redundant or meaningless and keeping the ones that are funny.
One of the ones that got dumped was a Christmas card that read, "Merry Christmas, your friend etc." She said that she would have kept it if it had read "You're ugly and I hate you", but as it was, the card misrepresented the sentiments they held for each other, and therefore wasn't worth saving.
I keep thinking about my box. I've decided, after this little reading session, that mine needs to be burned.
All of the letters I wrote when I was a kid were in the same vein. I'd start by saying what I was doing right that minute. Then I'd say what I'd been doing earlier that week. Then I'd list the books I'd read. Then I'd give a reason for ending the letter. I'd very seldom refer to previous letters or ask questions of the person I was writing to.
At the tender age of 8, my first pen-pal and I had so much in common. Usually we'd both have written that we were doing homework. We'd complain about things that our sisters did. We'd both have read a book. But as we grew older, and she got me a "Full House" paperback novel for Christmas, I realized that we didn't have a heck of a lot in common after all.
Pen-pal letters are particularly painful, because they aren't a conversation. Kids don't have conversations, they just tell you what they're interested in. They'll be friends with anyone who's willing to shut-up long enough for them to talk about their interests. They don't care about your interests or opinions. When kids write letters, they write to themselves, especially when those kids are 18 years old.
I slowed writing consecutive letters at some point in grade 11. Since then I've tried to write diaries instead, but they've always been so painful. If I'm writing the kind of thing I wouldn't want anyone else to read, why the hell would I want to read it, myself? It's taken me a long time to filter through the good and the bad that I write and only share what might be worth reading for blogging purposes. (and you wonder why there are so many pictures and so few updates! No, you don't. We both know how lazy I am.)
Though my lack of letter writing has caused a lull in letter reception, I have still managed to collect a good number diaries from people I've met throughout my years at school: 12 years of embarrassingly bad rants and laments written barely legibly and with unforgivable spelling errors, all of which are from people I can't relate to and have nothing in common with. I can't laugh at them, because that seems a little mean. Happily, in a couple weeks, they'll cease to exist, and I won't even have to think of them ever again.
By the way, I stretched the piercings in my ears a little wider today, and mended a pair of pants. I'm also embroidering an art-deco picture of Perseus holding a gorgon's head onto a pair of jeans that I bought from Value Village. You know. Just in case you care.
One of the ones that got dumped was a Christmas card that read, "Merry Christmas, your friend etc." She said that she would have kept it if it had read "You're ugly and I hate you", but as it was, the card misrepresented the sentiments they held for each other, and therefore wasn't worth saving.
I keep thinking about my box. I've decided, after this little reading session, that mine needs to be burned.
All of the letters I wrote when I was a kid were in the same vein. I'd start by saying what I was doing right that minute. Then I'd say what I'd been doing earlier that week. Then I'd list the books I'd read. Then I'd give a reason for ending the letter. I'd very seldom refer to previous letters or ask questions of the person I was writing to.
At the tender age of 8, my first pen-pal and I had so much in common. Usually we'd both have written that we were doing homework. We'd complain about things that our sisters did. We'd both have read a book. But as we grew older, and she got me a "Full House" paperback novel for Christmas, I realized that we didn't have a heck of a lot in common after all.
Pen-pal letters are particularly painful, because they aren't a conversation. Kids don't have conversations, they just tell you what they're interested in. They'll be friends with anyone who's willing to shut-up long enough for them to talk about their interests. They don't care about your interests or opinions. When kids write letters, they write to themselves, especially when those kids are 18 years old.
I slowed writing consecutive letters at some point in grade 11. Since then I've tried to write diaries instead, but they've always been so painful. If I'm writing the kind of thing I wouldn't want anyone else to read, why the hell would I want to read it, myself? It's taken me a long time to filter through the good and the bad that I write and only share what might be worth reading for blogging purposes. (and you wonder why there are so many pictures and so few updates! No, you don't. We both know how lazy I am.)
Though my lack of letter writing has caused a lull in letter reception, I have still managed to collect a good number diaries from people I've met throughout my years at school: 12 years of embarrassingly bad rants and laments written barely legibly and with unforgivable spelling errors, all of which are from people I can't relate to and have nothing in common with. I can't laugh at them, because that seems a little mean. Happily, in a couple weeks, they'll cease to exist, and I won't even have to think of them ever again.
By the way, I stretched the piercings in my ears a little wider today, and mended a pair of pants. I'm also embroidering an art-deco picture of Perseus holding a gorgon's head onto a pair of jeans that I bought from Value Village. You know. Just in case you care.
Labels: conversations, stories
posted by lunchbucket at 10:02 PM
2 say say say
