The History of J. Awkward Prufrock (as Told by Old Diary Entries)

A lot happens when you pack up your life. Like you find old underwear from when you were in the fifth grade; and even though they are ratty and full of holes, you put them on just to feel something. Then you lay on your floor and feel the weight of Wendy Darling’s famous line, “I have to grow up tomorrow.”

Plus if you’re a serial writer like I am, you find old notebooks you haven’t been able to part with, even though they are full of less-than-glamorous details about yourself.

Here are some of those details, spelling errors and all, for your reading pleasure!

Age 6, when I learned about stereotypes and poetry. 

Dear Diary,
I love my cat. Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want them to think I’m a cat lady.
Jillian (with a backwards J. I knew it was wrong; I was just being defiant).

The Story of Lizzy and Jackie
By Jillian Ports
Lizzy and Jackie grew up in an orphinage. They had two best friends named Tipi and Janie. They were really and I mean really were best friends. 

I think that’s the end, but I mean, pretty solid, right? I don’t think any questions are left unanswered.

Here is one of my untitled works:

The moon shines bright
People are walking
Stars twinkle through the night.
Yingyangs are floating through the sky!

I think this is one of those pieces that was inspired by a work of art. I had just gotten those bitching stamp markers. Picture below!

IMG_0901

Age 13-14, when I was the worst. 

Dear Diary,
My name is Jillian Ports. I am 13 going on 14. I just finished the eighth grade a few days ago. I’m trying this new thing with writing down my feelings so I won’t be confused all the time. So I’m gonna ramble and you’re gonna listen, got it? 

 I saw a sappy love movie today called THE NOTEBOOK. It was actually pretty good considering that I’m very anti-love. I’m more of a blood, guts, and gore kind of girl. Love is stupid and fleeting and the world will be better when everyone realizes that.

I hate happy songs too. I wish my friends would stop trying to get me to listen to happy music. I mean, what’s the point?
Jillian 

Well, 13-going-on-14 Jillian, one day this song called “Uptown Funk” is going to come out and you’re going to think differently. Also, cut the bullshit. You know you’ve cried your way through every movie you’ve ever seen.

Dear Diary,
Haven’t written in awhile. Nothing to write really. I’ve been depressed because my PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN fanfiction only received 3 reviews. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a writer.  

 My next entry might be more exciting. Be prepared!

 With love from my many hearts,
Jillian
PS: VANITY FAIR was virtually the WORST movie I’ve ever seen. 

I wasn’t a complete idiot. Vanity Fair did suck.

Here is the next entry—the exciting one I promised.

Dear Diary,
Nothing has happened in the last month. School is cool and drama club is going to start soon. I hope I get a part! 

 I’ve come to the realization that I don’t need a boy to make me happy (Well, obviously, Jillian. You’re anti-love!). I want to be a free person. Independent. I can think of lots of guys who are cute and stuff and all I’ve really wanted out of life is for someone to love me in that special way (What?). But then the tears come to pass. What am I to do? AND I have a bio test tomorrow. School is evil. 

With love from a confused heart,
Jillian
PS: LOVE SUCKS! 

I am woman.

Age 19, when I had feelings. 

 I’m so very tired of wondering. 

 I am so very tired of having my thoughts pounding on the sides of my skull, waiting to be released from their shell. 

 Some wish to flee through my lips, but they may not, for I might appear weak.

 Some wish to seep into my heart, but they may not, for then I’d be doomed to be weak. 

 I lay down and press to keep them in, but I am only so powerful. 

 If there is one thing I have learned from love, it’s that your soul has no bounds, you mind has no limits, and your heart never knows what it’s capable of. 

 And fear. Fear comes in all shapes, sizes, and sounds, including relentless pounding in your head—the pounding telling me that I’m about to lose. That I need to let go.

 At least I have control over the letting go. 

 I am so very afraid of falling in love. I am so very afraid of letting someone know—of letting him know. I’m so afraid of the future, not because of career uncertainty, but because I may never see him again. Because even if I weren’t afraid of falling, I never had the chance to.

And knowing that I could have fallen will bring less sleep than simply having done so.

 Yeesh, no wonder I was so tired all the time.

Dare I write it down? Dare I make it real? Dare I open up what I fight to keep closed?

 I dare. Because it is my life. Because I am mortal. Because I have a story.

 The problem with you is that I know what you are. My mind repeats it, my mouth repeats it. I am totally and completely enveloped in the truth of you. But I don’t like it. Don’t want it. 

 So my heart fantasizes. It paints a picture of thoughts and feelings that go unsaid. It whispers not truth, but possibility. Possibility is where heartache is born. My feelings were conceived out of wedlock, a fraternal twin of heartache, borne of truth and possibility.

 The possibility is what I’ve fallen in love with. The truth is what I accept.

 The worse thing is the truth of you is better than the truth of me. In many ways, you’ve lied less.

 Me? I’m whoever you want me to be.

 And we? We are nothing.

I really wish I could remember who this was about…

Ah, youth. Maybe it is best to leave it behind.

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