So, I've never been a consistent journal writer. Usually only in times of crisis. At least with the blog, I know there's some readers, so I can mention something fun from time to time. But with the journal, who cares, really? Especially when I re-read what I wrote my freshman year of college. God, what tripe! I really thought that stuff mattered? All I see is a self-involved adolescent with an undiagnosed clinical depression. Eek.
So, I threw it out when we moved. Along with all that bad poetry I wrote beginning in elementary school and carefully re-copied into bound books. I know, I know, tossing stuff. My father frowns on it, finding stories in everything.
I have hung on to all those photographs. Maybe I'll share a few with you, though I'm not sure what the correct protocol is with folks in pictures. Should I put a black bar across their eyes? Or just assume no one will recognize a 40-something-year-old as a child?
Just be thankful I'm not publishing any of my bad poems here. Like the one about the mouse in a house of ill repute...what kind of freaky teenager writes about stuff like that?!