I Hate Nutella

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“You’re such a picky eater,” My parents used to tell me. Now I say “don’t be so picky” when my mom refuses having kale in a salad or whispers that my dad only eats certain vegetables. As I’ve grown-up I’ve come to notice that being a picky eater is the norm rather than the minority. We gravitate, consciously or unconsciously, towards the same flavors and dishes, declaring ourselves a connoisseur of that experience.

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As is always advised I retraced my steps. Then I did it again and again, circling around the house.

With no sign of it, I asked my mom, “Have you seen my journal?”

“No.”

“I hope I didn’t loose it somewhere… oh no,” The implications of what that risked struck me, “I wrote about my crushes! And my teenage angst! …er, my adult angst?!”

Freshly endangered of angst exposed, my mind veered from ashes to an elaborate mural of memory. Engulfed by high-stakes hide and seek… I found my journal in mere moments, left in a decommissioned backpack.

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Author’s Note: I wrote this post a couple months ago, and I haven’t misplaced my journal since – not out of fear but being organized and responsible. Yay for adulting.

Do you keep a journal? Would you be embarrassed if someone else read it?