It is not a diary. It is a journal.
I do keep a journal. Not very well, however. I only use it to record significant events in my life; moments that I do want to look back on. I record seasons of growth; of change; of heartache. Every once in a while I have a nostalgic whim and want to look back on my thoughts and experiences. A written record is helpful to recall specific experiences.
Unfortunately, I often neglect writing in my journal so it is missing many major events in my life.
But just to over clarify…
it is not a diary.!
“Diary” has such a girly connotation.
I do not record a sentimental monologue of all my secrets and deep troubles about what Suzy said to me at school the other day. But for the sake of today’s question I will tolerate using the term for my journal.
Thankfully, I do not often experience embarrassing moments.
I have had a few though, and I don’t need to ask the mirror on the wall which of my moments is the most embarrassing of them all. I am fully aware of which it is.
14 years old. Car full of cousins and brothers. Driving to San Diego for a holiday. Decided to take the Coronado Bridge for the view. Got stuck in traffic in the middle of the city. Had to pee the entire 3 hour drive.
I’ll tell you now. I would not rather publish my
diary journal. It is not that it is full of dirty little secrets. Okay, it might be but you will never know. Honestly, I just don’t think it would sell. My mom might buy it, but other than her, it would not do well on the market.
This would be unfavorable. I intend on publishing written work in my lifetime. I can’t tarnish my reputation by publishing my very poorly written, raw journal.
Maybe someday, after I spruce it up and toss in some fabricated anecdotes for entertainment purposes. But not today.
Well, we arrived at my cousins house. The long awaited toilet was just through the doors. My relief was in sight. Everyone, fully aware of my need to pee quickly exited the vehicle… except one.
My cousin, Dude, prevented my escape. I was stuck in the back seat of a van with one way out and my pressurized bladder rendered me incapable of fighting my way through his body barricade. Cruelty, it was.
He received his fill of demented entertainment at the expense of my agony and moments later I had stepped out of the vehicle onto the pavement. Across the street I could see my parents ready to greet us but my thoughts were fixated on the yellow brick road set before me and I was ready to meet the whizzerd.
The hope of relief covered me with a warmth that was like…no; it was too late. Standing there at 14 years old, in front of all my family, was I, in a sea of golden yellow.
Make a movie of it. I’d watch it. I’m a pants pisser and I’m proud.
Good read? Hit like.
Want more posts? Start to follow.