I’m having a conversation with my 8 year old self.
She’d ask if I had a boyfriend by now. I’d smirk and shake my head no.
She’d ask if other people thought I was pretty. I’d shrug, and say, “Some do, others don’t.”
I’d tell her about my blog, and I’d show her some of the music that I listen to, and at the blog, her eyes would widen in surprise. She’d call me a celebrity and ask for my photograph.
She’d wrinkle her nose at the so-called “music” that sounds just like garage doors and nasally whining to her.
I’d tell her about how often I eat out, and she’d tell me to stop eating out so often, that it’s a waste of money and that I should utilize every opportunity to learn how to cook meals for myself. I’d remind her that I’m in college. She’d say, “Oh.”
She’d ask if I still wrote poems. I’d tell her that the poems I write now don’t rhyme, and are much sadder than the ones she writes. Her poems would tell a tale of self-discovery, but the poems I produce in present day tell a story of wandering.
I’m thinking back to when I was a little kid, trying to recall all of the things that mattered to me at the time.
I didn’t care about music. I learned to binge watch TV shows at a young age, and I was very particular about the smoothness of my bed sheets. I was very duck-footed and awkward around boys.
I’m still kind of duck-footed and awkward about boys.