It’s been awfully depressing around here lately. Sorry ya’ll. Let’s liven it up by talking about more things that cause me some level of personal embarrassment. A few weeks ago, Swistle wrote about “burn boxes” – boxes of things that we will demand to be burnt after our deaths. Since I, too, was once an earnest young wannabe writer, I have plenty of material for a burn box.
I think everyone has one (or more) of these – all of the flowered-material-covered journal books in my possession. Some have terrible poetry in them. One is filled with quotations I earnestly copied with my best pen in my best penmanship during a particularly angst-filled freshman year of college. All these quotations, you see, were so deep and meaningful and spoke to my very soul.
All photographs of me smoking pot. Not that I ever did that. But if I did, and was stupid enough to take pictures of it, those pictures should be burned.
The cd that holds the naked pictures of a very pregnant me. We thought it would be arty and beautiful. It looks like a fat pregnant chick laying on the carpet in front of the fireplace. Please.
The taped evidence of our (conception!) vacation to Italy (no, freak shows, the actual conception is not on tape). I took Italian in college (eight years prior to this trip), and thought I could totally get us around on what I remembered. While I got us around even in a hole-in-the-wall Florentine trattoria where no one spoke English, listening to me trying to speak the language with our gondolier is so painful it’s (almost) funny. BURN IT.
Various pictures of me doing embarrassing things – Doing the “Batman” dance (a’ la’ Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction) at Pleasure Island in 2000 (with, of course, a beer in one hand); doing a fantastic side kick in the middle of Bourbon Street in 2001 (in a dress, panties showing… OMG it’s THE SAME DRESS from Pleasure Island); peeing outside someone’s hotel room window at Disney World’s Caribbean Resort in 1998; tying yellow police caution tape, sugar packets, streamers and a hot sauce bottle in my hair during a particularly spectacular Mardi Gras celebration at a bar in Evansville. Don’t laugh. There was a respected attorney there wearing shorts in February and dress loafers without socks.
The 500+ page “novella” I wrote in the eighth grade about how me and my two best friends were going to meet the New Kids On the Block and fall in love with one (each), get married and honeymoon in Australia. There was also the beginnings of a sequel, but I think I grew out of that phase quickly. At the time I was reading a lot of Harlequin romances and Danielle Steele novels. Bet you can’t guess which New Kid I liked. (Erin, no fair giving it away).
So what about you? What goes in your burn box?