Reading Old Journals.

I am one of those people. Even before blogging, even before the advent of computers, I kept a journal. I didn’t write every day, and often skipped months at a time. I started at age thirteen, and back then, I wasn’t actually writing about my life. For the first six months or so, I wrote about what my best friend was doing, since my life was so dull.

Over time,my journal became the place I could vent about things like how unreasonable my parents were (in hindsight, they actually were sometimes) and pick apart my latest relationship (“Is he too needy? I think so. But it’s nice to be needed. But his best friend is so cute, too…”).

My journals were the places I could be myself. In a life where I was expected not to rock the boat, all my ecstacy and vitriol and fight had to go somewhere. It went into these books. They were spiral notebooks, but I decorated their covers religiously with pictures from magazines, headlines from The Weekly World News, and stickers from the cannery.

Over the last decade or so, I have periodically weeded out the journals I didn’t need anymore. The ones from ages thirteen to sixteen went quickly, (Too embarassing to even exist; I burned them) but I have kept some of the later ones. And, may I just say, I’ll be chucking most of those soon as well. Holy Self-Absorbed Girl, Batman! Also, why was I so in love with Loser X, or even Needy Boy Y? How did I ever think Z was cute at all? My God, he looked like Mr. Ed!

I’ll be keeping a few pages where the writing doesn’t suck, or ones that have funny stories. And I’ll be keeping the covers. Some of those are pretty cool artworks.

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