On Writing


“Cassandra just has such great dry humor.”

I can clearly remember my best friend relaying her mother’s words to me the day after we’d spent an afternoon driving around in their gray Volvo accompanied by my commentary.

At our mature 11-years-old, we burst into giggles at the description.

Dry humor?!

Was there a wet kind? GROSS! 

But I also remember thinking, I’M FUNNY. You like me! You really really like me!

Few in college would believe that the silent girl in class used to send her cousins into laughing fits when she rewrote the words to Britney Spears’ rarely-mentioned gem, “Dear Diary,” would once perform her own, primitive form of slapstick comedy on the playground (most often involving spanking herself, much to all’s enjoyment), and wasn’t afraid to yell some well-placed Spanish at annoying boys (take that, estúpido).

So what happened to that unafraid, utterly ridiculous child? She was so good at living her double-life, at once obedient in class and intelligent and completely insane. Her secret dreams once included being a stand up comedian. She wanted to be Amanda Bynes. And an Olsen triplet.

According to my linguistics class last semester, you could say that I’d put a face out into the world, learned it was not accepted in my social setting and adapted accordingly.

Basically none of those dang estúpidos ever liked me.

Not that over a decade has made the estúpidos any more appreciative of me.

But one way that I’ve still found to communicate, to let the wild child within out, is to write.

To write silly things.

(Poop. Hee hee. Giggle. Giggle.)

To write long, embarrassing, angst-filled song-quote laced emails.

(I was young and stupid, ok?)

To write recipes.


To write Facebook messages so full of emotion, they’ve made my friends cry.

(In a good way. Kind of.)

I freak out raising my hand to give my opinion on a poem in class, but willingly write soul-baring essays and now I’m going to be just as awkwardly honest right here.

Lucky you, right?


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