Past Imperfect

I used to want to be famous. When I was very young, I wanted to be a famous singer-- I hadn't yet realized that you have to be good at singing to do so. Later, I wanted to be a famous actress-- that pipe dream kind of petered out during high school theater classes. I've at times wanted to be a famous writer, a famous reporter, a famous figure skater. I don't think I've ever had an ambition to be something that wasn't at least moderately in the public eye.

But tonight, I realized that I really, really do not want to be famous. What brought me to this realization, you ask? I read my high school diary. And if I were to become famous, and it was for some reason published, I do believe I would literally die. If it was published posthumously, I would die again. It's the sort of stuff that would be perfect for Cringe, if it were a little less cringe-worthy. Yikes.

Maybe one day I'll excerpt a bit of it for you. One day far, far from today. Because now, after reading the entire thing, I need to go hide somewhere before I give into my urge to burn the damn fuzzy, leopard-spotted notebook so it will never, ever be exposed to prying eyes.