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Rhiannon
Westenberg
 On
the first day of school, since the second grade, a teacher will
undoubtedly ask her new class to write a paragraph about
themselves. Each time this happens, a desire to hurt someone
arises in me. This seemingly
simple assignment is impossible for me to complete. I cannot write
about me. Why not? Here's a theory. People say, "Write what
you know." Maybe I just don't know myself enough to write
anything autobiographical that will actually satisfy me. "Of
course you don't know yourself, you're only fifteen!"
Whatever, fuck you if that's what you're thinking.
I make up for my self-doubt with faux self-esteem and confidence.
Plus an "I'm so bored and jaded"/"Have you read any
good books on Quantum Physics lately?" attitude to ward off
any evil spirits. It's absolutely insane that people don't see
right through that.
By this point, you're probably not wondering why I enjoy writing;
Do I use it as a device to find peace during crazy times? Perhaps
it's an escape from the harsh reality of adolescence? Well...sure,
if this were and episode of the Babysitter's Club. I don't use
my characters to live out my fantasies. When the need to get
dreamy comes along, I don't bust out with my Microsoft Word and
get creative. It's more like I bust out with the twinkies and get
high.
Seriously, I write for a lot a reasons. Mostly, though, because I
see and hear a lot of really, really beautiful things. Both in the
world and in my head. I suck at verbalizing, so writing is just
easier for me to let everyone else know the things I know. And
it's kind of a way for me to remember them.
And that's all you really need to know.
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