When I first read Anne Frank's diary, I was 13, too. And I had an older, perfect sister. And I didn't understand my mother, and no one understood me, and I was soooo alone, just like Anne.
There is this one passage, where she asks her best friend if they can feel eachother's breasts. And her friend is all 'ew, no'. And poor Anne feels like a gross weirdo, because now her friend thinks she's a lesbian, and all she really wanted was to know her better.
I don't go around asking my friends to feel their breasts. And, if someone asked to feel mine, I'd be a little weirded out. But, I do the same thing...I want to know people, intimately. In fact, probably far more intimately than they care to be known. I want to know every inch of the people I care about, all of their thoughts, all of their ideas....to have the best sense possible of who they are. But they always think I'm so strange, when I ask the things that I ask, and it's discouraging to keep getting the same weird glances, the same backing away.
