It seems even the trash cans are neater on the Upper East Side. I found this stack of torn pages from a teenage diary placed delicately on top, no rooting required. This prep school girl partied a lot more than I ever did in high school, and her diary reads like the portrait of the popular girl who is silently screaming inside. Well… at least there’s enough angst in the pages to make her story tender. What made her tear it up years later?