My Last Attempt

When I was younger, I always attempted to keep a journal. I loved reading and I loved writing and being a life-long narcissist, I loved reading my OWN writing.  Problem was my journals never sounded like me.  They were watered down filtered versions of what was going on and what I was thinking. In the back of my mind, I think I wanted to censor myself for future me who I knew would someday be rereading those entries. That, or I just assumed my nosy ass Mom would ignore the “PRIVATE- DO NOT READ!!” cover warning while fishing through my sock drawer. She’s never been too keen on boundaries, which is something I learned  when I was fifteen and found this note on my kitchen counter along with a half empty pint of Georgi, “Found this in your purse. NOT HAPPY. We’ll talk later.” But I digress. This is my LAST attempt at a journal. I’m going to do it the way I always wanted to, which is with raw honesty. The worst that can happen is I let this project fizzle out after one entry or I offend whoever might stumble upon this but I’ll give it a try anyway. Besides, I've got a lot of time on my hands recently since dropping out of college...