Nope. OMD isn't the acronym for Oh My Dinosaur, though I'm getting to be one of those according to my nieces. (My nieces make fun of my pants. And my music. And my eyebrows).
If you're reading this, you probably know that OMD stands for Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark. And, at the age of 15, I thought that translated to playing one's cello with the lights off.
Fifteen is also the year I loved getting perms, clicking butane curling irons, and soaking my hair with sun-in, preferably all in the same day. Someday I'll post a pic of the bald spot that's rapidly forming on the crown of my head.
At fifteen, I was also in love with all five Stucki boys, my paperboy, George Michael, some guy named Russ who lived in Yakima, and random guys I met skiing. Really, truly, painfully in love with each one.
I wrote poems. Lots of poems. Poems that made me weep.
It was exhausting.
And it was recorded, in nauseating detail.
Yes, I'm back to share the sordid ramblings of teenage angst in its zenith: we're gonna freak out like it's 1989.
No comments:
Post a Comment