My Final Post

April 14, 2014

Puberty take two began on October 12, 2011. In the past couple years, I’ve written 97 blog posts. Through them, I rehashed super awkward middle and high school memories. I explored my feelings on religion, getting ahead in the workplace, having kids. and reality TV. I took time to reflect and remember school picture day, friends that passed away, summers at the beach, and where I was on September 11, 2001. For a year, I kept a report card on my personal goals. Many times over, I passively-aggressively tried to lure ex-boyfriends back into my life. I processed the present day and used my past as a compass.

For those of you that don’t know, this blog had been a long time coming. For years, I wanted to write a book about a girl in middle school seeking to better understand herself. The only problem was that I couldn’t think of a plot, but had all of these little vignettes pulled from my own life. My dream novel quickly turned into a collection of short stories.

The more I wrote, the more I wanted to share these stories in real time. At dinner parties, I would bust out my laptop to read the latest– hoping for everyone’s laughter and approval. I emailed my stories to friends for their required positive feedback and encouragement.

When puberty take two came to life as a blog, I desperately needed to do something that was just for me. I was still recovering from a relationship that had ended a year earlier– and since then, I had done little besides sulk and go through the motions of the day-to-day. My job sucked. I hated living in Alexandria. I was in such a rut. This blog was the beginning of reclaiming my voice and putting my dreams on paper. Through it, I explored creativity and allowed myself to be vulnerable.

As an extrovert, I never realized how valuable personal writing could be. Puberty take two forced alone-time into my life– and even inspired me to take a vacation all by myself. Even though this blog is a totally public forum, its allowed me to have better conversations with myself. It’s allowed me to connect with my friends in new ways, keep up with people in other parts of the country and world, and allow my old acquaintances to stalk me however they see fit.

You’ve probably noticed that I don’t write with the same frequency that I used to. Some of that is laziness and other excuse-making. But mostly, I’m just tired of comparing my present self to the past me. In many ways, I’m working really hard to shed the old Colleen that is sometimes self-deprecating and self-doubting. And, I’m about to turn 30. My friends are buying homes, getting married, and giving birth to children. I just recently got a major promotion and am feeling professionally challenged. Now is not the time to backpedal to “man, wasn’t 7th grade the worst?!”

Just before starting my new job, I took a trip to the beach and, without hesitance, had an obligatory reflective moment with the sound of the waves. I looked to my left: no one. I looked to my right: not a soul. Just me and the ocean. So I screamed: “2014 is the year of Colleen. It’s time to let go. It’s time to move forward. It’s time to be the woman I know I’m supposed to be.” Now, I recognize this is fairly melodramatic and cliche– but its exactly what I needed.

So, everyone…thank you so much. With the sincerest gratitude, I want you to know that your reading and commenting on my work has changed my life’s trajectory. Your encouragement has meant more to me than I can articulate. Onward and upward!


Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

December 20, 2013

While my older brother and I are different in many, many ways– we do share one important thing: our deep, unconditional love for Christmas. Over the years, we’ve celebrated in a variety of ways. For the seventh year in a row, we’ve made an album– and this year’s edition, Christmas with Colleen Don’t Stop!, is our best yet. (Download it between now and Christmas Eve for unlimited enjoyment.)














The year before, we took a stab at an international affair.

christmas with colleen all around the world

And the year before that, we honored our Christian roots and our priestly mother with this totally sacrilegious classic:

the spirit of christmas with colleen

In 2010, shit got real– and we broke the sometimes false happiness associated with Christmas.

christmas with colleen ain't easy

In the years before, our album titles were a little less clever– but the passion was still clearly there. I also don’t have the album artwork on me– sorry.

But it’s not just about our hilarious, beautifully crafted albums that all of our friends and family enjoy. We’ve started a bunch of random traditions over the years. Two years ago, we decided to start a tradition where we would take a spontaneous trip every Christmas Eve. The first year, we stopped by the Great Wolf Lodge — which has a holiday show (sort of like Chuck-E-Cheese, very frightening).

great wolf lodge



The second year, we walked around singing carols in our old-timey voices in Colonial Williamsburg, VA. Here’s a quick video of a performance we saw to get you in the holiday spirit. One year, we had a chipotle burrito on Christmas Eve (because it was all my little brother could afford for us as gifts), and we thought we’d start a tradition of Christmas burritos– but that never picked up. We also recently started a tradition of making banana daiquiris every Christmas…in honor of Prince and his deceased girlfriend in the song, “Another Lonely Christmas.”

And now, as you all know– my brother has made a Christmas movie– a true testament to his love for the season and the idea of finding hope in the midst of life-altering sadness. If you haven’t already, please make sure to support White Reindeer by liking it on facebook and downloading a copy to watch this season.

I share all of this with you not just because its hilarious/amazing/inspiring, but because I want you to enjoy the season as much as I do. Friends, I hope that you’ll treat this holiday season as a new beginning. An opportunity to live a little more authentically, love a little more earnestly, and sing with a little more pep. I’ll be doing just that in the weeks ahead while I’m off work– and hoping it carries into the New Year.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from my family to yours!

merry xmas

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My Snow Days

December 10, 2013

For those of you that haven’t been obsessively checking facebook today, many of your friends– including moi– have been working from home today for a “snow day.” I put snow day in quotation marks because, frankly, it was a total joke. While it did snow this morning, nothing stuck to the ground– and this afternoon I considered going for a run. (Key word: considered.)

Luckily, the majority of snow days in the DC area are exactly like this– a quiet, totally-safe-to-drive opportunity to stay home, make some hot cocoa, and putz around the internet from my couch. Today was no different– I was super productive with work stuff and somehow made time to do a few rounds of laundry, whip-up a fully-balanced lunch, and drink a glass or two of wine. And, bonus– I never changed out of my pajamas.

Growing up, snow days (and fake sick days, for that matter) were a great opportunity to stay home, drink coke, and watch Jerry Springer. When my parents were upstairs or in another room, my brothers and I would sneak it on and turn the volume especially low. This was my first exposure to the ever-amazing reality TV– an important reminder that yes, at least I’m not that guy. Special episodes included “take charge, your baby is too large” and the classic “who’s the baby daddy?”












As an indoor family, we never spent too much time playing outside in the snow– instead, I opted for phone calls with friends about yesterday’s gossip. When we did go outside, it very rarely included the classics of building snowmen or having snowball fights. We would pick the icicles off of gutters and eat them like candy canes. We’d point out the yellow patches of snow where a dog had just peed. We’d complain and ask my Dad to make us our winter favorite, “pizza pasta.”

There was one snow day, in January, where my family was stuck indoors and was going a little stir-crazy. So, we did what any normal family would do– we decided to have Fake Christmas. What is Fake Christmas, you ask? Its where you have 20 minutes to find items in your house, re-wrap them, and dole them out to your family as if they were newly purchased gifts. I gave my Dad a used pair of his Schol’s inserts. For Emily, my unfortunate friend snowed in during our family’s absurdity, I gifted a toy plastic machete with letter magnets on top that spelled out FRIEND. I’m sure that is a gift she still has and will cherish for years to come.

All in all, I’d say that snow days are god’s way of saying, “Hey middle class-America, you deserve a break from your cubicles.” I’ve been enjoying them for years, and will for years to come!

What do you typically do during snow days? 



Thanks be to You

November 27, 2013

While Thanksgiving is a widespread tradition, there are no traditions in the Peacock Clark family. Growing up, my family spent most Thanksgivings at the beach. Yes, we were one of the 30% of Americans who opt out of turkey in favor of another meat or vegetarian option–in our case, fish. When my parents divorced, I heard two very similar conversations. First, my mom: “I haven’t had turkey for 30 years and so we’re going to buy a turkey, damn it” Then, my dad: “Well, my wife thinks its pure blasphemy that we don’t eat turkey.” So, to make up for lost time– we went from 0 to 2 turkeys every year. In between, my family has faded in and out between pure vegans and the people you catch eating leftover ham in the middle of the night.

There was one year we tried to start a tradition. It was the morning of thanksgiving, and my mom asked my brothers and I to each write 100 things that we were thankful for. We would share them at dinner. (A little excessive, right Mom?!?) We moaned and groaned, and went to our rooms to start the task at hand. Who knows what Jacob wrote— he was like 6, he probably couldn’t even count to 100. I wrote down as many friends and classmates as I could think of– and then I started repeating names in hopes that my parents wouldn’t notice. But Zach’s response was pure genius. He sat down at the dinner table, opened up his sheet of paper that seemed mostly blank and proclaimed, “I am thankful for the 101 Dalmatians…except for that damn Pongo.” Bravo Zach, bravo.










Over the years, I have traveled to spend thanksgiving with friends and family from all over. I made paper pilgrim hats for friendsgiving before it was a thing. Today, I travel to North Carolina to spend thanksgiving with my best friend since 7th grade, and I’m filled with gratitude for all of the people in my life. I am fortunate to be surrounded by some of the greatest Joe Schmo’s that walk this earth– and I am inspired by each of you everyday. Whether its my friends who are navigating newfound motherhood and balancing career, my colleagues who are filled with passion to end child hunger, or my family who follows their dreams to lead ministry, inspire others through video games and film, or simply scoop ice cream to happy tourists– each of you helps to shape who I am. And for that, I am grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!


I’m Gonna Be a Supermodel

November 17, 2013

Well, folks– it’s been awhile since I’ve written a blog post. Thanks for checking back in!

Lately, I’ve been having some body image issues. Not in a depressing, melodramatic way. I haven’t falsely convinced myself that I’m morbidly obese or anything like that. I don’t cry while I watch The Biggest Loser. (Well, at least I don’t cry for me.) 

If I spent the amount of time working out that I talk about working out, I would be a supermodel. I mean, I am really good at discussing exercise. You love your personal trainer? Yeah, had one of those. You find yoga relaxing? Sure, me too. Unfortunately, at this point– I am totally sedentary and eat whatever I want, whenever I want. It’s a slippery slope to true slothdom– don’t say I didn’t warn you.

To motivate myself to get back on the horse (the horse being an elliptical machine), I figure I need a baseline of confidence. And where better to find inspiration than looking at photos of a younger, skinnier version of me?!? So I started looking through the photo albums and yearbooks for images of a smiling, adorable Colleen. And then…I came across a true gem from my past. Pictures that say a thousand words of beauty and….high school science?!?

That’s right, people. I used to model for a high school science magazine called Chem Matters. And here’s the evidence to prove it:



Here’s me on the cover, looking at my friend Rachel’s totally hip mood necklace. And yes, I’m wearing rollerblades for no apparent reason.


Hell if i know what this article is about, but the back of my head looks like a A+ student in chemistry.


Last but not least, here is a blown up photo of me blowing bubbles. Unfortunately, the photographer did not tell me that expression on my face made me look like a monkey, or that I was somehow growing a mustache. You think he would’ve noticed or done something to edit that out.

Looking through these photos gave me a renewed sense of just how hot I am and have always been. In the words of songwriting genius, Jill Sobule, I don’t care what my teachers say. I’m young, and I’m hip, and so beautiful….I’m gonna be a supermodel.


30 __________ before 30.

October 8, 2013

Soooooo….I’ve been freaking out a little bit about my 30th birthday. It’s about 7 months away, and that is 7 months too close.

Am I ready for real-live adulthood? Does this mean I can’t text my ex-boyfriends and eat unlimited amounts of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream? Does being 30 equate to actually needing to invest in retirement, or frankly understand the meaning of the words “invest” and “retirement”? Can I still wear hand-me-downs and let my mom take me shopping at Target?!?! So many questions.

To seize the day and carpe the diem like never before, I’ve decided to embark on some sort of personal-development social experiment. After reading the pop-self help book My Year with Eleanor, I came up with this genius idea to write a second blog… 30 things before I turned 30 that scared me, interested me, stretched me out of my comfort zone. Original, right? Wrong. When I told a group of four friends at dinner & drinks, three of them had a personal friend who had already done it. It’s actually been done like a million times.

OK, that’s fine. (Grrrr.) How can we do this Colleen style? The brainstorming got better with each glass of wine. What about 30 acts of kindness before 30? 30 delicious gourmet meals before 30? 30 selfies before 30? (Been there, done that.)

Then, we came upon it….if I wanted to embark on the journey of a lifetime, and also allow my life to become a famous movie where I am played by Tina Fey, I would need to go on 30 dates (with 30 different guys, potentially in 30 days) before I’m 30. 

30 days





This has been done, too, but not by a musical-loving, world-traveling lady like myself. Even better, as someone who can’t ride a bike, I will have to bike share to every one of these dates. This will culminate in the greatest birthday party of all time– where I have them meet, and I hand out roses and pretend to be the Bachelorette. (Potentially joking. Not sure.)

Also, this blog will clearly be anonymous. Please don’t tell my parents.

Here’s what I’m looking for in the comments section: questions, concerns, feedback, volunteers (for marketing help and men who’d like to go out with me once, seven months from now. Don’t line up all at once.) I mean, whaddaya think? What are 30 other things I could do besides date and bake? Oooh, maybe a cross-country trip– 30 cities before 30? 30 odd-jobs before I’m 30 (since I’ve always wanted to learn plumbing)? 30 DIY art projects before I’m 30? Please.




My Imaginary Kid

September 22, 2013

In the past year, I’ve spent more of my life around babies than ever before. Many good friends have gotten knocked up, gave birth, and are now raising adorable little boys and girls. I’ve listened to them feel challenged by breast feeding, deciding not to breast feed, going back to work, deciding not to go back to work, losing sleep, and learning how to nap. I’ve listened to their joy as their babies started making “oohs” instead of “ahhs”, following their eyes with the movement of a finger, rolling over, and sitting up. I’ve listened to how having a baby has changed, for better or worse, their relationship with their spouses, parents, in-laws, and friends. Honestly, I have no idea how these women (and of course, their husbands) do it.  To oversimplify, they make the impossible possible on a day-to-day basis.

When I watch my friends parent, I am simultaneously in awe and super glad that my life isn’t there yet. For as much as I complain about not having my life together, that lends itself to a certain level of freedom. I, for instance, can split a bottle of wine and watch a few hours of TV without too many distractions. I can sleep in. I don’t frequently have conversations about the consistency of poop. I can (as I did today), spend way too much money on new shoes and a purse– and this won’t take away from my child’s college savings plan.







I’m happy to be “doin’ my own thang”, meeting new people as I travel, and having the flexibility to choose my life as it comes by the hour, but I thiiiiiink that one day, I’d like to have a kid. (Emphasis on the think.) The only problem (ok, there are lots of problems) is that as a foreign concept so far off in the future, I refuse to accept motherhood as anything but perfect. Here’s what I’m thinking:

1. Pregnancy will last no longer than six weeks. I’ll wake up, really cute and showing, and my closet will be magically filled with maternity clothes. (Maternity jeans, in particular, will become a regular part of my wardrobe– both comfortable and slimming!)

2. I will give birth to an 8-year old. While labor may be painful, my imaginary kid won’t need diaper changes, can cut their own chicken, and can have conversation in full sentences.

3. Like babysitting, I will get paid $20/an hour to order pizza and watch cable while my kid sleeps.

OK, I get it. Being a parent isn’t about perfection, or even finding happiness and joy in every moment– it’s about living a life that’s meaningful. It’s about creating a new family that extends beyond you. And while I’m really far from having the maturity or stability to raise a child, I like that idea.

I can picture my imaginary 8-year old, growing up to discover their passion in life, contributing to the world, and living their own life full of laughter, anxiety, ambition, and love– just like the rest of us. And while the thought of raising a kid is overwhelming, I’m learning from my friends that it’s a meaningful journey. Not always fun, not always cramping their style. My imaginary kid, of course named Colleen.



Mother Earth

September 17, 2013

After more than a year of blogging, you probably think you know me, right?! Some girl in her twenty-somethings who is reliving her high school days, obsessed with musicals, has a tendency to over-analyze. etc., etc. But did you know that I’m also a self-published author? That’s right. And now, for your viewing pleasure…is the content of the original, Mother Earth.

book 19







book 2




Oh, right. I’m an illustrator, too. Notice the copyright, people.


book 5




Super ugly heart, but it’s the thought that counts, right?


book 6




Deep, meaningful questions that I pose to the reader.


book 7






book 8






book 9




I think her ears are my favorite part of this picture. That and her amazing outfit.


book 10




I don’t do this, but feel like with the right soda bottles…it could be cute.


book 11




I actually remember drawing this piece of trash– learning how to draw something “3D” was really challenging.

book 12





Watch out! Looks like a pretty serious gasoline spill.

book 13






book 14




Not quite sure what this has to do with saving Mother Earth, but still important.


book 15





I totally forgot turning off the water while you brush your teeth!

book 16




Or walk to work, like I do now. Ditched the car two years ago and haven’t looked back!


book 17






For those of you that can’t read my perfect 5th grade hand-writing, here’s what it says:

About The Author

Hi! My name is Colleen Clark. I like acting, singing, and dancing. I love going to the movie theater with my dad. I’m eleven years old and I have two brothers. I get in fights with them but I love them. I enjoy writing books and hope to write more. Thank you for your support.

Sincerely, Colleen

Well, nothing has really changed– still act, sing (in the shower or the car), and dance (at da club), fight with my brothers, and love a good movie.  Who would’ve known that so little could change between 1995 and 2013?


When the Twin Towers Fell

September 11, 2013

Twelve years ago today, I was a fame-seeking, non-drinking senior in high school. I had three goals in life, and three goals only: 1) get accepted into Elon University, the only school I applied to, 2) become the understudy for Indina Menzel in RENT, or frankly, get cast in any part in any musical, and 3) finally get a boyfriend. To oversimplify, life was simple. But on September 11, 2001– I was compelled to think about the world around me for the first time, really.

Below is what happened, or at least how I remember it. This is how I have come to answer that generational question: “Where were you on 9/11?”

Homeroom that day was Yearbook. Mr. Reddington, our teacher who chain smoked and only/always wore a blue button down and khakis, sat on a stool in the front of the classroom, dryly making fun of one of the weird kids. He was everyone’s favorite teacher, because he would “let you” skip class as long as you brought him back a bagel. Everyone (meaning every one of my friends) was in Yearbook, so it was basically a free period of hanging out and looking through photos.

At 8:46, while Flight 11 was crashing between the 93rd and 99th floors of the North Tower, I was sitting Indian style in the hallway outside of class. This early in the year, there really wasn’t a whole lot of yearbook planning to be done– but we had sprawled out yearbooks from previous years to make a list of pros and cons for graphic design and style. The 1979 yearbook had too many photo collages, you could barely see people’s faces the photos were so tiny. The 1987 yearbook was hilarious– all the girls had perms and poofed-out bangs. Last year’s yearbook was awful– page 62 featured a photo of me where I looked totally fat.

A couple of minutes later, the principal or an assistant or someone like that came over the loudspeaker. A guy was speaking– slowly, calmly. He said, “Everyone, please stay in your homeroom class until further notice. An airplane has crashed in downtown New York. Faculty, please remain calm and carry on with today’s lesson plans accordingly.” Next thing I knew, we had wheeled in a TV from an empty class down the hall and were searching for outlets to plug it in and watch the news. I stood in the back of the room with a few friends– there actually weren’t enough chairs and desks for all of us.

To be completely honest, I wasn’t phased at first. I mean, it’s the news– the whole point is to showcase the awful things happening around the globe. Reporters were telling mixed stories– when had the plane crashed? Which tower had it crashed into? Who was flying the plane and why did they do it? I knew things were bad, but that was in New York– and I figured we’d be back to our school day in no time. As people were jumping out of buildings, acknowledging defeat and ending their lives early, I was glad to stay in Yearbook for longer than usual– I remember trying to calculate how much shorter each of my subsequent classes would be for the rest of the day. Maybe I wouldn’t have to take my first quiz of the year in AP Government.

At 9:03, we still stood silent– idly watching the TV trying to piece together the puzzle of what had just happened– and then we watched Flight 175 crash into the South Tower, killing all 65 passengers immediately on impact and hundreds from within the building. In unison, I heard the hall of classes scream. A couple of girls left for the bathroom, sobbing.

I kept imagining scenes from movies that summer– Pearl Harbor, The Fast and the Furious, Tomb Raider. I’d always hated action films, but would get dragged along when a big group was going. Was the news just replaying a clip from a blockbuster? Was this nothing more than special effects? Frankly, we were all just too confused to process what was happening. I tried to chit chat about something else, but failed. I’d never been good in those quiet, awkward moments.

Minutes passed in what felt like hours. Reporters were starting to blame the whole thing on Osama Bin Laden, and Bush had come on TV to say that there had been a terrorist attack. At 9:37, Flight 77 crashed into the West side of the Pentagon building, just 3.8 miles away from me– shorter than the distance I regularly ran in Cross Country.  We didn’t hear or feel anything, but as the news broke out– hysteria set in. (Sometimes when I retell the story, I feel like I heard or felt the vibrations of the crash…but there’s no clear memory anymore.)

I had just gotten my first cell phone a year earlier (when I started to drive– it was for emergencies only). And so after I called my parents, I started lending it out to the kids in class who didn’t have one. But not everyone’s calls were going through. Someone came back on the loudspeaker to make an announcement. We were on lock down until further notice and were instructed to not leave the classroom under any circumstance.

Among my friends, Jeremy was the only one with a parent working in DC– but he had luckily gotten in touch with his Mom fairly quickly. But Rachel’s Dad was flying that day, coming back from a pharmacists’ conference or some work thing, and she couldn’t get a hold of him or her Mom. I walked with her to the bathroom just down the hall, after asking Mr. Reddington for permission. Rachel couldn’t really breathe; she was hysterical with worry for her Dad.

And shit, I had nothing to say and was pretty worried, too. I didn’t know if he was okay, or what flight he was on, or what was happening at all. Some girl walked into the bathroom– I had never seen her before, which was pretty common since our class was about 600 kids. She had deep black skin and an African accent of some kind, I think Ethiopian. She immediately walked up to Rachel and hugged her, started holding her hand tightly. My heart rate rose as she urged Rachel to pray to Jesus. Prayer, as she described it, was the only thing that would keep us safe.

“Get the fuck away from my friend!” I thought, but didn’t say. With an Episcopal priest for a mother, you’d think that I wouldn’t have had such an averse reaction to religion….especially in confusing, hectic moments like that day. But I knew that now was not the time for evangelical, conversion scare tactics. And while I couldn’t bring myself to speak, I pried their hands apart in ultra-protective mode. Without blinking, I looked at Rachel and said, “Don’t worry about her.” This was the best I could offer.

The day passed by, ever so slowly. Rachel did somehow learn that her Dad was safe, and my shoulders relieved their sympathetic tension. At some point, we were escorted to the cafeteria in groups of ten– it was the only time I had been in my four years of high school. (We had off campus lunch, and the cafeteria was a depressing place for poor kids.) I was a vegetarian at the time, so I picked the pepperonis off of my square, room-temperature slice of pizza before eating it.

From here on, time gets a little fuzzy. We were allowed to leave school that day, but it was later than normal. My family watched the news again that evening– Fox wasn’t playing the back-to-back Simpsons and Seinfeld line-up, and so the news was the only thing on. The next day, school was cancelled and I baked cookies at the Catholic Church with friends and delivered them to firefighters. Days went by, and life sort of went back to normal. I was accepted into Elon, cast in the ensemble in The Wiz, and continued to live a quasi-happy life void of making out.

Every year, the news features a sort of anniversary special– a story about how this day changed the lives of many forever. And while I know what happened, and lived through those small moments of personal fear, I didn’t lose any family members or friends. I didn’t know anyone who knew anyone where that was the case. I don’t feel deeply connected or eternally changed. Maybe I’m in the minority here. And for that, I am grateful. I’m reminded that others had (and have) it off worse– a better reason than any to serve and make sacrifice.









Where were you on September 11, 2001?


A Poem for You

September 6, 2013

Dear friends,

Remember writing haiku in your high school English class? (Maybe middle school, if you went to a hoity-toity private school for smart kids.) This brief, Japanese form of poetry allows an individual to express themselves fully with just a few syllables.  Think of them as ancient tweets.







To bring back the memories, I’ve, scratch that– we’ve, written you a poem. Below are a bunch of haiku written by friends and me about our transformative, scratch that– awkward, experiences in middle and high school.  Got a haiku in your head? Share it in the comments!

Several years pass
Now you again interact
Drugs rule their life now
Headband in toilet
They say “the show must go on”
The pee-stained princess
-Colleen (me!)
Distance causes pain.
Scars surpass an open wound
That time does not heal.
G-dub Middle School
T C Will-i-ams High School
I went to those schools.
It was formative
But so unlike my life now
I kept the trophies
C in Algebra
C+ in World History
I’m meant for Broadway
-Colleen (me!)
fat girl, skinny guy
unrequited love affair
bon bons are yummy
the small sweaty scribble
that gave sixth-grade life meaning:
“will you Go with me?”
Mesh shorts get tugged down,
adolescent penis flops
gently in the breeze
An exciting time
Filled with awkwardness and fun
I loved my high school
High-pitched speaking voice
Somehow turned alto in choir
So, no solos here
-Colleen (me!)
Palace Nine Movies
Dated a guy with one leg
Had love for VIN D
John Cabral 8th grade
I had big hair and braces
Honey, you can’t dance
Speech team and science club,
Captains of both, to be sure.
Not what cool kids do.
Said “no thanks” to beer,
Loud parties and cigarettes,
Sex said “no” to me.
Trip to Mexico:
At least I fed flamingos,
ate a bunch of cheese.
-Colleen (me!)
Abercrombie tees
and ultra low-rise, flared jeans,
hashtag fashion fail
Always wore my Vans
Stole my brother’s flannel shirts
Damn, I looked cool
Middle school mis’ry
Sucky sports and hard boiled eggs
Thank goodness we moved
It’s school spirit week!
Dressed as kermit the frog, but
can’t find a prom date?!?
-Colleen (me!)
Awkward Colleen
My braces are off
Jack’s House, the band, plays tonight
My sweet, sweet sixteen
-Colleen (me!)
Warrior mascot
But the cheerleaders just yelled
“Yeah! Let’s go wah-yos!”
Trying to be cool
In my search for acceptance
Ah…just be myself
Rollerblading hunk
delivers Easter basket.
Card reads, “I like you.”
-Colleen (me!)
A high school hippie
Daisy-chains for jewelry
Glad I had no dreads
Soccer and dance troop
Friends with all the fab cool kids
But no prom princess 😦
College tuition–
like monopoly money.
Send me to Elon!
-Colleen (me!)