Looking back on my old journals is a really really horrible experience. And hilarious.
My favorite entry details a fantasy about asking a boy I liked into my room which for some reason would be decorated like a lame disco. Under the twirling multi-colored lights I would ask him if he wrote poetry, which would lead to him opening up to me about his deepest feelings - and then we'd make out.
Though, for an idiotic twelve year old, I was oddly prescient:
"At the moment I feel myself quite wize [sic] in writing this out but I feel that as days, weeks, months, even years pass I will think of myself and this diary completely idiotic. I can see myself now, reading this back to myself chuckling at my own stupidity."
Well, mostly prescient. There's some chuckling, but also some reeling back in terror.