Nostalgia.

My brother recently dropped off a heap of my belongings that I had him store for me while I travelled Europe. Five bags and four milk crates filled with pieces of nostalgia and an orangutan (I went through a faze, don't ask). I have to wonder why I've kept most of these things. So far, I've found three diaries that I wrote in between the ages of 12 and 20, a hundred little notes that were passed around the class room, old photos, a piece of my school uniform and feathers of my pet budgie that flew away neatly put into a jewellery case (creepy, I know). I've been lugging around these pieces from my past for some time now and I'm starting to feel like sooner or later I'm going to appear on the Dr Phil show with the topic, "Is holding onto your past and pet budgie feathers ruining your life?".

I found this one diary entry written when I was 11 years old going on 12 and I still remember that day. Although I can't remember exactly what we were fighting over, probably because it would of been so petty like Kara not letting me borrow her glitter pens and Megan siding with her. What bitches. Megan, Kara and I were probably the three most bitchest girls in Primary School and we were "best friends". I cringe to remember all the nasty and pathetic things I did around that age. I would have to say though, my biggest influence back then was Megan Provost. She was the girl who taught me how to swear, how to pull the finger and how to make little girls cry. And for the record, I was not "fucking Joel just for fun". I was 11 and the idea of even holding a boys hand made me want to vomit. Her dad had every right to ground her, what parent wants to read that his little girl knows about sexual intercourse and is already using crude slang for it? But then again, her parents did allow us watch Porky's with them.

Come to think of it, perhaps I'll hang onto these pieces from the past. Looking over them makes me feel better about myself. I've come a long way from being that bratty little pre-pubescent. I'll keep lugging them around until my future husband decides to send me to Dr Phil and I'm forced to burn them all on TV. Feathers and all.