I wish I could tell the 12-year-old me in this picture not to worry so much. That once she gets her braces off and figures out what to do with her hair, things will come together.

What follows is unedited, unfiltered self-loathing. 

April 22, 1987

I need to tell whoever is reading this, why does Kim have a boyfriend, and no one will even look at me? What the hell is wrong with me? Am I a spaz? I don’t agree that I’m beautiful, but that bad that no one likes me?

I used to think being 13 would be fun. It’s okay, but most of it is just WAITING–till someone will accept you, till you can drive, till you can be as good as everyone else.

In 5th grade, I liked Bryon Cunningham. Now, the 6th grade boys and 5th grade girls are getting together. The 6th graders back then hated us. I missed out. Here I am, 8th grader without a boyfriend, even anyone who would think I’m pretty. How I wish I looked better.

My sister will always have men at her door, breaking it down. My door will be untouched–I’ll have to put up big signs saying “I’m alive!”

How I wish I was a different type of girl. A cute, lovable girl, not a worry-wart, ugly girl with glasses that only mothers can love. I wish so hard I wear myself out!

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