I don’t know what it is about blogs and secrets: why it’s so easy to confess things on virtual paper and then send it out into this sphere of nothingness.
Maybe it’s because I think no one is reading it? Possibly because it’s therapeutic. I mean, there’s nothing like a good confession, Right?
So far, I’ve confessed that: I cheated to pass Algebra II, that I was my own secret admirer once, that I have a thing for guys who can pull off eyeliner, and that I faked a sprained ankle . . . twice.
Last week, I admitted that I wanted a Quinceañera.
This week I have a new confession. But first, a story:
When I was in the sixth grade, I wanted nothing more than a horse of my very own. I had taken some riding lessons, and spent my free time “practicing” in the backyard (i.e. prancing around in my breeches, slapping my leg with a crop). I *loved* horses. For Christmas that year, I asked for a horse (of course). I begged, I hoped, I prayed . . . and on Christmas morning, when I woke up . . .
I heard it: stomping, whinnying; the sound of a horse waiting for me. My horse.
But when I went outside, I discovered that it wasn’t my horse at all. The sound was coming from the yard beside me; the girl next door had gotten a horse . . . not me.
I was Devastated. Distraught. Crushed. I mean, imagine having your hopes shattered like that. And on Christmas morning, no less!
And now for my confession:
All a Lie.
Yeah. I invented this story to make people feel sorry for me. I was in the sixth grade and having a tough year. The worst part is, not only do I remember this lie: I actually remember telling it to people (*face palm*). The truth was that I was 12 year old emo, trying to figure out why my friends were acting so “mature” when I didn’t even know what the word meant. They wanted to talk about boys, and I still wanted to play with my Littlest Pet Shop. Seriously. Loved that thing. . . .
Ironically, that was the same year I faked a sprained ankle (the first time) and was my own secret admirer. Say it with me now: Attention. Starved.
Okay, so the point of this blog is to inform you that my twelve year old me was a Big Fat Liar. Trust nothing she said.
And so . . . I feel like, for the sake of karma, I should apologize to the world for my sixth grade year.
To that friend: I’m sorry I lied to you. I mean, it wasn’t even a plausible story: my neighbors were in their sixties, and there wasn’t another girl on my entire street . . . or room for a horse, for that matter.
To that guy who was accused of sending me love notes: I’m sorry everyone blamed you. I remember your face turning really red. But you know, you didn’t have to be ashamed; despite the fact that I was a pathological liar, I considered myself a catch. Truly.
And to my mom: I’m sorry I dragged you to the doctor and made you pay for a cast I didn’t even need . . . twice.
The good news is: I’m past that now. I’m *So* Mature! Besides: any tendencies I may have to fudge the truth are exhausted during my writing time.
This is one narrator who *can* be trusted.
Have a Fabulous Friday!!