All Aboard - Paperblog

Right now I'm working on a story about people who are working on their novels. It's really interesting, and I enjoy learning about other people's processes, which falls into the bigger category of why I love journalism, too---I love learning shit. The story is bringing up some old memories, so I decided to go dig into my old writing, out of nostalgia and curiosity. I dug up my old sixth grade writing file. AHAHAHAHAHA. Oh my god, it's so embarrassing. What terrible quality. I was such a freak. Still am, arguably, but I think it's less obvious now. I've gotten better at hiding it for longer.
If ever a reason to build a time machine so I could go back and punch my younger self in the face, my old writing is it. I mean, the language itself. I did not know what a comma was. And unfortunately, my potty mouth hasn't cleaned up at all. Over 109 pages of random thoughts, passages, stories, quotes. I don't really write full works. I just practice in small quadrants of styles and ideas. It works for me, kind of, but not long term. Oh well. Practice is practice is practice.
Allow me to share some of the less (hopefully) humiliating passages I've managed to scourge up from the stupidity of my sixth grade self. ALL ABOARD THE NOSTALGIA TRAIN. But first, a song to get us in the mood. AHAHHAA I'M LAUGHING SO HARD THIS IS ALL SO EMBARRASSING WHAT IS LIFE I WAS A FUCKING IDIOT. I WAS 12. FORGIVE ME.

Dane Cook is frickin hilarious. Straight to the point, no detours. As good comedians are.
My future plans are this: Become a world class animator, live in New York in the big bad penthouse, eat lobster thermidor with my mom every Friday night, have Shelbi come over for pasta noodles on Wednesday or when she has free time out of her "Star" career. Have three cats, fall in love with some drop dead gorgeous guy while in a drunken stupor at a Irish beer bar with a dancing elf going "It's me lucky beer!" And settle down in some super nice house with a bar and a football den and have three kids. Then retire when I found myself as usable as a vegetable and spoil my grandchildren rotten while I decay with my aging husband and our ten cats. Then die and have my ashes buried in the ocean. How romantic.
Shaded in palettes of blue and gray and violet with the scent of faded roses pressed into books, and an atmosphere of a composed lady but drawn within the lines of a sensational poet, even a dead man could inhale you.
“I’m being serious here, Ross. Obesity is a serious issue with kids your age now a days, and if you don’t start taking action now and quit on all those high fat foods, you may have a heart attack.” Aunt Marta said solemnly.