My grandfather had shrapnel in his leg from just this sort of thing.

Boom! Yesterday I found a lovely little landmine in my house. (I realize that’s typically a euphemism for “dog poop,” but not in this instance. Just keep reading, okay?)

As I was rooting through my books for potential Goodwill donations, I stumbled across an old sketchbook with some love letters glued into it.


Which made me feel like this. ^ You know. Horrified.

Because the stuff I received when I was 16 was the worst.

I have never before or since been the recipient of such flowery, overblown language. Stuff like “I never thought I would deserve a girl like you” and “At night I dream of holding you.”

As if that weren’t icky enough, there were also poems about me.

Poems so horrible they cannot even be quoted here. Not even to make you, dear Internet, laugh. Because they’re so raw and inelegant that they’ll remind you of what you were like when you were a teenager — that horrible mix of pain and pretension and desperation that encompassed your existence.

The sketchbooks I had when I was 16 (and those thereafter) have been traveling with me for the past decade, from apartment to apartment and house to house.

I’m not lugging those crazy-rigged tomes any further. I threw them out — plus, like, another five industrial-size garbage bags of trash.

I need to stop living like a person on Hoarders. This ends now.