I’m writing an autobiography as a way to get me writing again since I haven’t done nearly enough of that lately. I find that digging around in my past is a sort of memory tool. Writing helps me remember things, and therefore, maintains the delicate neural connections in my noggin, or so I hope. Also, I see it as a way to exercise my demons since I can’t afford therapy. Anyway, regardless of the reasons, that’s what I’m doing. Don’t question it.

As a starting point, I’m reading all my old journals from the age of 15 on. They are old school, bound notebook type things written in pen with cursive handwriting. Cursive! Pre-interwebs! I wouldn’t wish this chicken-scratchy twaddle upon my most hated of enemies. It’s too bad that I never had a house fire so I could look back wistfully at all my old writing having been destroyed as I sigh heavily over all that lost genius. Alas, no. I have all of my old genius sitting right in front of me and I’m contemplating burning it now. It’s no wonder old people cannot relate to young people at all. In all honesty, it’s amazing there isn’t more geriatric crime towards younger generations. It would serve teenagers right if they were taken down by grandpa and his baseball bat.

What I’ve discovered by wading through all of this teenage angst on paper is that I hate my former self. I really do. I was a twit. Not only was I a twit, but I was a poncy twit who thought she knew everything about goddamn everything.

Oh, former self, so you made it through childhood and early adolescence? Woo! Bully for you! You must know all about life! In fact, I should give up right now since all of the big problems and the big questions have been answered by a teenage version of me.

Former self, you had some bad stuff happen to you, did you? Well, I’m so sorry about that. Really, I am. Because, you know what? I went through all of it, too. Everything you’ve experienced, I have as well, plus a whole lot more. Take all the stuff you’ve had happen to you in your teensy, little, can count on less than two hands and two feet years of existence and then double it or triple it. Do you still think you know everything?

Well, alright, to be fair, maybe you know a little bit. You weren’t entirely retarded. You existed before my memory was shot to shit (see the blog Goldfish). The reason I am consulting you now is because you remember exactly what happened back then, whereas I do not. You know all about being young and I can barely remember that. So, you have the edge in that category.

You also have a formal education nearer to your past than I do. If we were to take an Algebra test right now, you’d probably score higher than me because, contrary to what our math teachers always said, I’ve yet to find an occasion to use my vast Algebraic knowledge in real life.

As much as I hate to admit it, you most likely have the edge on anger and hate, too. Don’t get me wrong, I still have just as much as you do, but I don’t rage nearly as much nor as often. For one thing, I don’t have as much energy as you and it’s hard to sustain that kind of hatred. Also, I don’t live with our parents anymore. How did you do it? Besides, I have other things on my mind apart from getting laid and increasing my vocabulary. Plus, there’s the fact that I don’t think the world owes me anything merely because I exist, whereas you probably do. That kind of expectation can breed a lot of hatred when your widdle hopes are all dashed to pieces.

So, former self, it’s you and me butting heads again. Remember when you used to wonder what I was like? Well, I can tell you this much (because I don’t want to ruin the surprise), I’m better than you. I’m beginning to wonder if visiting your world is even worth it. I sincerely hope that in the next few books you learn something and stop being such a pretentious twat, because I have a lighter and I’m not afraid to use it.