As every little girl did, I used to keep a tiny pink locked diary. In it, I would write about girls at school that were “super annoying,” wonder why I didn’t like boys, and ask Jesus for my sister’s early death. The one thing that I remember most of all from this diary was writing in it one night after my mom and I had a row about not finishing my dinner and not doing my homework, or whatever (I never did either of those things as a kid). Anyway, I wrote in it something like, “Mom thinks meat makes you responsible,” in what I can only assume was a super-haughty pretentious kid voice.
Other than that, I swear, I was the best kid.
