How I Spent a Saturday Night

I found an acordion file in the top of my closet tonight. A file I haven't thought about for years. In it, I found late high school and early college writings. Some formal -- some not. I have to say I had the best time reading through my treasures.

Why?

I was able to go back to a time where I was totally naive and genuine. I honestly believed that all people were good and took them at their word. A time before I became guarded and suspicious. A time where I was so open and honest it's almost embaressing.

It was great.

I was a letter writer in high school. Maybe I would still be a letter writer if e-mail and social networking hadn't already destroyed me {see previous blog}. There is something beautiful about receiving a handwritten letter -- misspellings and all. I knew how I felt about people I loved, and I had no hesitation about telling them so.

I found a copy of a letter that I sent to Charlton Heston {of all people, right?} about a teacher I had. This teacher was a great friend to me, and I wanted to find a special way to thank him for everything he had done. Knowing he practically worshiped the ground Heston walked on, I wrote a letter asking for an autographed picture or some other momento to give him. The letter I wrote was beautiful. I'm not saying that as the author because there were so many mispellings and comma splices I'm horrified to even think about it, but it was a very sincere, heat-felt piece. I never thought twice about writing or sending it.

What happens to that?

I have many beautiful friends. People who are my family, not by DNA, but by choice. Why is it that a decade ago, I felt compelled to put pen to paper and tell people I loved them, but now I just assume they know it? Why is it that I never sit down and eloquently put my thoughts into words so people will know that I love them?

I really don't feel that I'm the only one in this situation. Why is it that as we grow older, we become more synical? If anything, shouldn't we become more intent on telling people what they mean to us as we become more and more mortal in our own minds? At 16 I thought I'd never die. Now that I'm in my mid 20's {I couldn't bring myself to type late 20's... I'm just not ready for that} I realize that life is fleeting and precious yet I take it for granted more than I ever did in my younger years.

Maybe that should be my resolution for 2010: Have the heart I had 10 years ago. Minus the teenage drama, of course.

The Best Opening Line EVER

“Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to find himself a beetle.”

Imagine waking up one morning to find that you’ve transformed, unbeknownst to you, into a beetle. An ugly, hairy, nasty looking beetle. Worse than that, your own family tries to kill you. An apple gets lodged in his back that eventually begins to rot. So, not only did he wake up a creepy crawly, his very own family wants to squish him.

Pretty sure there's not enough therapy in the world for that.

I’d like to think if I woke up a bug one day, my mom would stear me towards the nearest garbage can or compost heap and tell me to eat my heart out. That's of course after she stopped screaming and peeing her pants when a 5'5 beetle showed up on her doorstep. She may be my mother, but that's enough to freak anyone out -- even the woman who has evicted spiders for me for nearly 30 years.

I don’t really fear waking up a bug, however, since I’m fairly convinced that Kafka made the whole thing up. Although, I keep an open mind about what the human body is capible of achieving.