Private Insides

I was scribbling notes today when I saw the insides of a neighbor's notebook. I didn't see anything dirty or embarrassing. Neighbor wasn't drawing hearts or writing Mrs. Blank, her future married name. But I gasped anyway. The girl had the worst handwriting I had ever seen. It was huge and looping and frankly, boyish. I hadn't seen handwriting of the type since fourth grade, when I learned penmanship in my d'nealian workbook. I was so surprised: where did she learn such hideous scrawl? And then I felt judgmental. Why did I expect beautiful even cursive? That wasn't very fair of me. Everyone is entitled to their own chicken scratch. And aren't geniuses supposed to be sloppy and illiterate? I should be grateful. After all, the girl's handwriting was thrilling. Even thinking about it now, my heart quickens a little bit.