Memories in a Notebook

I wanted to do something innovative with my first book, but I got a little too creative and launched myself into orbit.

I churned out a heap of "essays" I'd written back in school.

And that age is prime time for an outbreak of chuunibyou, so...

Well, let's just say...

Rereading them made me cringe so hard I wanted to fly away.

Other people's youth is seven parts sweet and three parts awkward.

Mine was seven parts melodrama and three parts arrogance.

I spent all day imagining I'd win the Nobel Prize in Literature someday.

Then I'd wave my hand and write a whole bunch of stuff,

but after three years of picking at it, I still hadn't even scraped together enough words for a serial recommendation.

Sometimes, while reading it, I wished I could go back in time and slap myself twice.

Damn it, why ruin anyone else's eyes when I could ruin my own?

So, yeah,

a full three years of writing and rewriting,

and I barely managed to scrape together a few pieces that were passable.

Feel free to take a look,

because I've got nothing left.

The future Nobel Prize winner ended up without even a book to his name.

That's pretty pathetic,

but I guess I deserve it!