Another Place, Another Time

Some teen girls, in the early ’90s, may have documented their heartbreak and frustration in the privacy of pastel-colored journals, written with pink ink, where the letter “i” was dotted with a tiny, bubbly heart.

But not me.

I discovered the emotional outlet that journalism — specifically, the Personal Column — provided.

So I made the mistake of exposing my soul in one of the final issues of Paw Prints, my high school newspaper. I thought I was rather hot shit at the time and felt I would make my plea public.

The following is that very work, published in the spring of 1997.

I hope you laugh about it now as much as I did when I discovered it this weekend, tucked away in a file folder.

{And for those of you who write for a living, you may find it humorous that this column contains only four paragraphs. Something tells me that I could’ve broken up the text just a bit more.}

The line about me not swearing has become, quite obviously, complete bullshit. I didn’t swear until I started working at The Gateway in college. That naive Catholic girl who loved to write discovered, from her peers, a new vocabulary of four-letter words that couldn’t often be duplicated when telling, say, a dirty joke.

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