The streetcar was filled with teenagers tonight, drinking vodka from paper bags and chasing it with orange juice straight from the carton, flipping their hair and heading to Trinity Bellwoods park to spend their first days of summer freedom. I couldn't help but think of the words that passed my lips today:
"I was going to go to a Fringe play last night, but decided that I was way too tired after my long night of couch shopping at Crate & Barrel."
I really didn't know it was going to happen so fast.
Tonight was the book launch. The book was not my own, but my name is there, neatly typed, on pages 85 through 89. And my words are there too, written over a year ago, submitted, but really only to meet the requirements of an assignment for my fourth-year magazine writing instructor.
I think they're important words. They're the kind of words that might have made it all easier. They're the words I would give to my teenage self.
But who am I to try and sum up my entire high school experience in 1,500 words or less? Who am I to sandwich every major relationship of my formative years between semi-colons? Who I am to subject their secrets, my memories and my words to a third-party editing process?
Tonight, it became clear: I might be the kind of person who wants to hide behind their words.
.jpg)