I don’t know about you, but I submerged from the womb as a completely pristine young lass, with a worldly view on life and a neatly trimmed Tom Selleck-style mustache. With my Olympic gold medal for Hockey (GODDAMNIT, CANADA) in one hand and a White Russian in the other, I simply strutted out of my mother’s vagina and onto the streets of Compton. It was there that I ended the War on Baggy Pants (which actually would’ve been done singlehandedly had my hands not been full, you see).
So, when I stumble upon my array of websites that I created when I was 14—Xanga, Livejournal, Deviant Art and the like—I’m obviously not ashamed. I don’t even mind when these websites deny my requests to delete my account (really, Deviant Art? You’re just so fucking attached to those overly manipulated, copyright infringed photos I posted of the Olsen Twins?)
Depicted: Years of our lives attempting to hide itself.
I have to admit, at 14 years old, I was undeniably insightful. I quoted Bright Eyes lyrics that I’d never actually listened to (CONNER O’BURST 4EVER), joined “BlogRings” on Xanga that promoted diligent moral high ground, such as “I’m So Glamorous I Piss Glitter” and “Degrassi Owns Me” (it was 100% intense, you guys!). I was a civil rights activist, armed with the brilliant retorts I’d crafted in middle school:
I think I’m gonna start saying, “that’s so straight” [even though I'm straight myself], if i keep hearing “that’s so gay,” etcetera… anymore. seriously, people. there are better adjectives out there. like fuckhead. i’m very fond of that one.
you bitches are so straight.
how’s that, bigots?
(:
Alas! There’s more insight from where that came from:
my boob hurts. but i think i’ll be emo and tell you my heart hurts.
All from the same entry! Holy mackerel, shit is some powerful political ammo. Entry to entry, I dedicated my time to not using the space bar on my keyboard, evidently, and to exploring the different uses to every cuss word I had ever heard (not much has changed there). Somewhere along the lines, however, I stopped utilizing so many different fonts, font sizes and formatting styles that I stopped creating virtual collages of words – images so magnificent that I think my eyeballs just began menstruating. I bragged about holding up conversations with boys who actually ended up in juvenile hall or in boot camp, begging for nudes of underage asians in both circumstances.
I was one certifiable indie motherfucker. I had heard of Death Cab for Cutie once. I wore “vintage” clothing (more than a year old, duh), and I checked my dental rubber bands in rearview mirrors of occupied cars. I had to make tough decisions, like whether headgear would really be worth wearing in public, and I like, totally needed LJ to process my thoughts. Every blog entry was issued as publicly as settings would allow, because there were masses to be catered to (I’m pretty sure one time I got three unique commenters on one post).
I peaked at 14, hovering over an ancient Windows monitor. What have I accomplished since? Puberty? Barely. Gaining dignity? Perhaps in comparison. Truly achieving unclouded understanding of contemporary society (also jazz music)? Clearly, no future attempts at social commentary could ever measure up.
