In a misguided attempt to thwart prying siblings eyes from reading my secrets, I used to eat the pages of my diary. I would fill a sheet with the details of an interaction with a crush or a fight with a best friend, rip it out of its spiral binding and chew it up. There has never been a point before or since when eating my emotions took such a literal turn.
Even then, my 11-year-old mind recognized the seriousness of documenting your life and the chaos that I imagined would ensue if, for example, someone were to find out about my undying love for Jake D. or that I had started shaving my legs without permission. Looking back on those days, when the stakes around my private thoughts and feelings felt so high, and contrasting it with the internet reality that my 14-year-old sister has to deal with now, makes me glad to have grown up in the days of dial-up.
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