A Lyft Driver Knows My Secrets (Probably)

I lost my journal, dear reader. And oh boy, am I scared.

The fear is always there, sure. I am incredibly anxious–a self identified fretter. Most benign inconveniences terrify me to the point of complete stagnation. But this, this is bad.

This particular journal came into my life at a very tender time. I was figuring out how to be in a body and not actively wish to starve it into oblivion–I was figuring out how to love and be loved–I was figuring out how to have an orgasm while actively hating my naked body. Spoiler alert–not easy. Spoiler spoiler alert–not impossible. Ayee.

But now you see why each and every cell in my body is writhing in pain at the thought of a classmate, professor, lyft driver, boyfriend, or boyfriend’s roommate finding and reading it.

So in true crazy-girl fashion, I will reveal a few secrets to lessen the inevitable blow of someone, somewhere, having them to read and reread at will.

 

I think my boyfriend sold his hands to the devil to play guitar.

His best friend scares me because he can read minds.

I hate Jcrew more than just about anything, and have written several 5 page long rants about the fucked up way they size their clothes.

I actively hate vegans. I’m sorry.

I have trouble doing basic math because instead of doing the math, I spend my brain power worrying I’ll get it wrong.

I’ve been using a fraudulent bus pass for like, four months.

Once, a bus driver caught me and threatened to call the police.

I had to walk away quickly, not because I was scared she’d call the police, but because I was laughing so hard.

I write a lot about Sylvia Plath. More than anyone should. It’s real lame.

I write her letters when I have no one to talk to.

 

Not the juiciest ones–but those will do for now. Find it if you want the real ones.

 

I love you.