Don't ever change a book I never wanted to make: a true story about some paper I thought I set aflame.

That poor guy up there is not me. Nor is the one on the opposite page. But they both capture something about high school that I can't really articulate with words.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

I had an idea for a book I thought would be fun. The book would be a compendium of notes written to people in their high school yearbooks. I even had a tentative title: Boy, We Sure Were Dumb. This would be especially fun because I would be revisiting other people's pasts and avoiding my own. That was not to be the case.

After making a few phone calls to friends, I realized that not everyone had lugged their yearbooks with them after moving away from home. In fact, no one had. Soliciting notes would be a lengthy process. It would probably take many days, if not weeks. That amount of time far exceeded my attention span. I wanted the book Now. And then I realized if I wanted the book now, I would have to find my own yearbooks.

My chances of finding my yearbooks were slimmer than a shadow. Late in high school I went through several purging sessions. My agenda was to erase the symbols of my youth. So I tore down all the posters in my room, trashed my photographs, incinerated six paper bags of notes and then tried to rid myself of my yearbooks. You might call it-memorabilia-cide. But thanks to my mother, and unbeknownst to me, the yearbooks were redirected to the attic.

Why did I attempt to annihilate symbols of my teenage years? This is the point where I should come up with a sweeping generalization about the state of American High Schools and my experience therein. But, I have none. Maybe my classmate Ryan Merritt said it best in my 1997 yearbook: "This year sucked."

The notes yielded: cringe-inducing quotes, barely legible hand-writing, long-expired inside jokes, and language so coarse I blushed. Overall, the notes took a friendly tone. For instance, "Dear Mike, Do the good stuff. Hurt yourself along the way. ~Meghan V" (1997). Another note said, "Mike, Even though you suck at lacrosse, and you're slow. You're still cool" (1994).

But the note that really resonated with me was as follows, "Mike, Your (sic) so sweet. Don't ever change! love-ya, Jessica" (1995). That advice truly struck a chord with me. After compiling the book, I realized that Don't Ever Change is the worst possible advice you could give anyone.

Don't Ever Change is published by Snore & Guzzle Press and is available for purchase at www.snoreandguzzle.com. The book includes notes in their original handwriting, additional illustrations, and footnotes and stories by the author.