I tried writing an autobiographical account of my adolescent years, and here's what I've got so far. Is it something worth continuing? I'd appreaciate any and all feedback.
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When I was but twelve, as gauche and diffident as any one at that awkward age, I chanced to enter the parlor, where I witnessed my parents watching the opening credits of Sex and the City. "Sex is a sin," declared Mama, in a manner so stern and conclusive, that even the betutued Carrie Bradshaw herself would be daunted into silent acquiescence. "Sex is of the greatest importance," replied Papa, who held no regard for any authority but his own. I knew not what to make of this contradictory intelligence, and made my exit.
A year had passed, and it pleased my parents to confine me in a Jesuit-run convent, "Loyola High School" they called it, where I was to be impregnated with religious precepts and a sound American education. As I was neither Catholic nor yet American, it seemed only natural that I'd fit right in. Grandmama gave her blessing, observing that being surrounded by my own sex would prove profitable to my edification, for it obviated the pernicious effects of the fair one. I felt the pangs of guilt and shame--my familiar companions--for I had only known the effects whereof she spoke to emanate from men. I saw it my duty to undeceive her, a confession that was likewise to be a deliverance from my burden, but whether out of prudence, or cowardice, I chose to conceal, if not conquer, such and other proclivities of my nature in my demeanor.
Alas, their intervention to mould me into something good had come too late. Left to myself and my own devices, lost in the viscous swamps of puberty, it was my misfortune and escape to be whirled away by the giddiest and gayest of societies. All the heroines I snorted like snuff! Juliet, Ophelia, Moll Flanders, Roxana, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary--c'était moi! With greed I gobbled up their inner worlds, and their vicissitudes taught me one lesson: there was a substance yet more intoxicating--Love--worth abandoning all judgment and common sense. The consequences would always catch up with the characters in the dull denouement, but why would I heed them at my tender age? Sentimental fiction promised a world more sensical than the one for which I felt too ill-equipped.
The only noteworthy event to take place in my first year was a ball organized for “freshmen,” as they called us, to enter society, by which I mean the society of young ladies. I was naïve and confused enough to attend, confident that my prior experience conversing with the fair sex, whose company I was deprived of now for a twelvemonth, would enrich my solitude with new acquaintances. Having paid more than usual attention to my toilette and dousing myself with Axe, I stepped into the ballroom only to be dismayed at the disconcerted faces of some solitary schoolmates, and the smiles of others whose groins were being stimulated by the derrieres of the said young ladies. As grinding, that fashionable new dance, was not one I was a master of, and as I observed its partakers, not sure whom to envy, my own derriere was gripped by a company of gay young ladies, which proved to be the only manner of communication I was to enjoy that night.
The following school year, my first infatuation befell me. I would compare him to a pine tree, and no, dear reader, not in a cone-bearing, gymnospermous manner! Whatever Vices may be imputed to my kind, I was now fourteen, and my feelings were yet unsullied, as was my Virtue. Mr. ___, my English teacher, was ganglingly tall, exuding freshness akin to one of those noosed automobile conifers. As a freshly graduated teacher, he was at that fleeting phase that generally withers away into depression or tenure. Unlike the other teachers, who slid into the classroom as if into the crematory, he was eager and enthused in a manner that felt earnest. He had great expectations for us. It soon, however, became apparent to me that I was the sole object of his expectations.
Having introduced us to several works of Dickens, Mr. ____, ever desirous to encourage in us the freedom of thought, asked that we post our reactions on an online forum. Others chose to berate the great author, accusing him of inducing in them ennui or slumber. My post was the last, as I was wont to submit my work at the very last moment. I chose to liberate my penchant for the romantic, praising the ingenuity of Ms. Havisham and Madame Defarge and, perhaps out of resentment for my classmates, I slipped in the fact that in the Old World, men much younger than we were made to read War and Peace, a much lengthier work that I, to my great shame, have not yet managed to complete to this day. I was taken ill the next day, and stayed at home, but great was my consternation when I learned the following day that my humble opinion was chosen by Mr. ____, angered by the manner his pupils chose to exercise the freedom he had granted them, to be read out loud to at least three-score ears as an example they ought to follow.
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When I was but twelve, as gauche and diffident as any one at that awkward age, I chanced to enter the parlor, where I witnessed my parents watching the opening credits of Sex and the City. "Sex is a sin," declared Mama, in a manner so stern and conclusive, that even the betutued Carrie Bradshaw herself would be daunted into silent acquiescence. "Sex is of the greatest importance," replied Papa, who held no regard for any authority but his own. I knew not what to make of this contradictory intelligence, and made my exit.
A year had passed, and it pleased my parents to confine me in a Jesuit-run convent, "Loyola High School" they called it, where I was to be impregnated with religious precepts and a sound American education. As I was neither Catholic nor yet American, it seemed only natural that I'd fit right in. Grandmama gave her blessing, observing that being surrounded by my own sex would prove profitable to my edification, for it obviated the pernicious effects of the fair one. I felt the pangs of guilt and shame--my familiar companions--for I had only known the effects whereof she spoke to emanate from men. I saw it my duty to undeceive her, a confession that was likewise to be a deliverance from my burden, but whether out of prudence, or cowardice, I chose to conceal, if not conquer, such and other proclivities of my nature in my demeanor.
Alas, their intervention to mould me into something good had come too late. Left to myself and my own devices, lost in the viscous swamps of puberty, it was my misfortune and escape to be whirled away by the giddiest and gayest of societies. All the heroines I snorted like snuff! Juliet, Ophelia, Moll Flanders, Roxana, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary--c'était moi! With greed I gobbled up their inner worlds, and their vicissitudes taught me one lesson: there was a substance yet more intoxicating--Love--worth abandoning all judgment and common sense. The consequences would always catch up with the characters in the dull denouement, but why would I heed them at my tender age? Sentimental fiction promised a world more sensical than the one for which I felt too ill-equipped.
The only noteworthy event to take place in my first year was a ball organized for “freshmen,” as they called us, to enter society, by which I mean the society of young ladies. I was naïve and confused enough to attend, confident that my prior experience conversing with the fair sex, whose company I was deprived of now for a twelvemonth, would enrich my solitude with new acquaintances. Having paid more than usual attention to my toilette and dousing myself with Axe, I stepped into the ballroom only to be dismayed at the disconcerted faces of some solitary schoolmates, and the smiles of others whose groins were being stimulated by the derrieres of the said young ladies. As grinding, that fashionable new dance, was not one I was a master of, and as I observed its partakers, not sure whom to envy, my own derriere was gripped by a company of gay young ladies, which proved to be the only manner of communication I was to enjoy that night.
The following school year, my first infatuation befell me. I would compare him to a pine tree, and no, dear reader, not in a cone-bearing, gymnospermous manner! Whatever Vices may be imputed to my kind, I was now fourteen, and my feelings were yet unsullied, as was my Virtue. Mr. ___, my English teacher, was ganglingly tall, exuding freshness akin to one of those noosed automobile conifers. As a freshly graduated teacher, he was at that fleeting phase that generally withers away into depression or tenure. Unlike the other teachers, who slid into the classroom as if into the crematory, he was eager and enthused in a manner that felt earnest. He had great expectations for us. It soon, however, became apparent to me that I was the sole object of his expectations.
Having introduced us to several works of Dickens, Mr. ____, ever desirous to encourage in us the freedom of thought, asked that we post our reactions on an online forum. Others chose to berate the great author, accusing him of inducing in them ennui or slumber. My post was the last, as I was wont to submit my work at the very last moment. I chose to liberate my penchant for the romantic, praising the ingenuity of Ms. Havisham and Madame Defarge and, perhaps out of resentment for my classmates, I slipped in the fact that in the Old World, men much younger than we were made to read War and Peace, a much lengthier work that I, to my great shame, have not yet managed to complete to this day. I was taken ill the next day, and stayed at home, but great was my consternation when I learned the following day that my humble opinion was chosen by Mr. ____, angered by the manner his pupils chose to exercise the freedom he had granted them, to be read out loud to at least three-score ears as an example they ought to follow.
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