Now Playing: The Best Day by Taylor Swift (I don't know who I'm gonna talk to now at school, but I know I'm laughing on the car ride home with you, don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay but I know I had the best day with you today)
Dearest Eleven, this is your annus horribilis. Well, it was, until 2012. 2012 was no fun, either.
Dearest Eleven, school is beyond retarded. You've called in sick so many times because the idea of wasting time there, bored out of your mind, literally makes you sick. You just want to do anything, anything to run away. You beg Mum to homeschool you. You'll do anything to get out.
Chicken pox! At the ripe old age of eleven you get chicken pox, and I've still got the scars - lovely and purple all over my thighs. But you did have eleven years of immunity before you succumbed, dearest Eleven. You're stronger than you look.
Dearest Eleven, if there was any advice I could give you this year that you could have actually listened too before it was too late is never ever ever go out with someone you don't like. Thank goodness you made this mistake at eleven when nothing counts. Feelings and emotions and hormones and all that other good stuff just gets more and more complicated as time goes on, dearest Eleven, but for a smart kid you sure do make some stupid mistakes. You don't like the guy. But you were so insecure that you said yes. Why? Why oh why oh why? The most romantic thing he's ever done for you is hack your email account after you 'dumped' him a week later. I know it's hard pining for all those boys who don't look twice at you, but don't settle for anything in life, dearest Eleven. You learn that this year. Good is not good enough for you, baby. You deserve the best.
Dearest Eleven, the bullying is pretty intense this year. For some unknown reason everyone decides to tell everyone else that you lost your virginity to a tampon and you lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for hours. Despite all the insanely awkward sex ed classes everyone seems to think that only sluts get periods and once you get it you're fair game for the most merciless bullying. Everyone is so senselessly horrible. When you're in Singapore over the summer and you pull down your pants and you see that dreaded red stain you nearly cry, because you know you'll have to spend all of next year denying you have it and going to all lengths to make sure nobody finds out. Don't worry, dearest Eleven. High school makes primary school look like a claustrophobic nunnery.
Dearest Eleven, I don't really like thinking about 2007. It was a horrible, terrible, no good year. You're so angry and frustrated that you become bitterly hostile, and I still haven't quite shaken off that hostility. But you get through it, dearest Eleven, you always do. And I promise, things get so much better.