I always wanted to keep a journal.
I’d write in it every day and when I die, some family member will find my vast pile of notebooks, read them, get them published, and my genius will be discovered.
(I always imagine myself published posthumously. In some bleak sense, it gives me hope.)
By the way, have you read the blog Exile on Pain Street? Besides having a really cool blog name, he often shares items from the journal he kept in his younger days. Good stuff.
Great stuff, actually.
It got me to thinking… while it’s true I never managed to develop a daily habit of journal writing, there were times I tried.
Maybe if I look through one of those notebooks, maybe I can find something of value to post on my blog?
Most of my entries are variations of, “Okay, this time for sure I’ll write in this every day!” and, “Oh, wow — totally forgot I was doing this!”
I was hoping this notebook would give me a glimpse of my younger self. What were my hopes, dreams, and aspirations? What were the concerns that plagued me? What deep thoughts did I ponder?
I have ugly kneecaps.
I was looking at my kneecaps just now and realized how ugly they are.
Does everyone have ugly kneecaps or is it just me?
I’m not complaining, mind you. It’s just that I rarely view my body so intently. Sometimes I find parts of myself I never knew existed.
Taking a shower can be a very enlightening experience for me.
None of the entries are dated, but I know I pilfered… er, borrowed… the notebook in 1983. That would make me… um… younger than I am now.
I’ve always looked younger than I really am, which is annoying.
When I was 19, I looked like I was 14. When I was 10, I looked like I was 5. When I was born, I looked like a fetus.
I’m telling you, it’s been rough.
When I was a kid, it seemed every year I got a diary for my birthday. They were always pretty, girly things with locks on them, to hide all those deep, dark secrets. Pretty sure every diary was pink. Possibly baby blue.
Pretty sure every one of my diaries had a grand total of three entries.
But serious writers, they keep journals. That’s where we write our serious stuff. Ponder life’s mysteries, uncover great truths. Stuff like that.
Only it seems I missed that memo…
Last night I had an erotic dream concerning my mailman and a pineapple.
On an unrelated note, I wonder why I’m not asked out more often?
One thing I did learn about myself — at times I have a dark sense of humor.
Like, really dark.
I’ve been feeling so lost and insignificant lately. I wonder what the point is anymore? Yesterday, trying to escape my misery, I slashed my thumbs.
I called my sister to say goodbye.
Clearly she was overcome with emotion as she screamed at me, “The wrists, you dummy! You’re supposed to slash the wrists!”
The whole incident has left me quite shaken.
Here’s the thing: I’m in college at this point. Clearly things are happening, right? I’m learning things, discovering things, experiencing things.
So why didn’t I write about those things? Why didn’t I write about what was really happening, instead of:
The love of my life ended our relationship. How can I go on?
I realize I shouldn’t have expected so much from a man so quickly after he picked me up, but how could he do this to me after I gave him the best hour of my life?
I’m so depressed that I’ve been sighing steady since it happened.
My friends think it’s asthma.
Later on there’s an entry of how I joined a anti-nuclear group that lives in the woods and eats pork and beans. I hint there’s a mystery surrounding the absence of pork in said pork and beans. I vow to get to the bottom of it.
Sadly, there are no other entries.
I’m unsure if I should try keeping a journal again. Maybe this time the habit will stick?
How about you? Do you journal?