I watched the documentary “Mortified Nation” yesterday, which showcases the stage show, Mortified, where ordinary people get up in public and read from their childhood journals, letters, stories and other personal writings. It’s part comedy, part therapy, and fully hilarious.
So of course I went and dug out my own childhood journal.
My childhood musings are not as valuable as say, the diaries and letters of Jacqueline Onassis, whose papers, it was reported today, are expected to fetch $1.6 million at auction.
But they are pretty darned amusing.
For the record, I did a lot of story writing as a child. Most of the stories I wrote featured talking animals, and in one case a talking sea sponge named Harry. Apparently I put that idea out into the universe when I was in elementary school and someone picked up the energy decades later to create a wildly successful cartoon. Although in all fairness, my sponge Harry didn’t wear pants, square or otherwise. But in my story we did go to the movies together to see “Peter Pan.”
I read my journal to darling husband last night, and I have to tell you that it made for some fine entertainment. Continue reading “50 thoughts on turning 50: #7 Dear Diary”