Inspired, in disproportionate parts, by my close friend K$, Bridget Jones, and some weirdo in “The Secret” (I’m not exactly sure if he’s the one who was arrested for the sweat-lodge deaths…meh), I started a journal.
I wanted to record events/my thoughts for a number of reasons:
1. My memory is shot to shit. I could blame it on massive alcohol consumption, but it’s always been this way. An Ex used to call me his “little goldfish”- because two seconds after something happens, it’s seemingly wiped from my memory. And if you can’t remember, you’re doomed to repeat.
2. I’m an exhibitionist.
3. Every self-respecting journalist, serious about their career has a blog. However, as explained in point two, I’m an exhibitionist and I want to bare it all. I may not be encouraging potential employers to read about my stumble-around-brown-out-drunk exploits (re: bullet point one), and my rants about boys and work, but who knows? Maybe this will take off and this journal o’ mine will spread like Ebola.
4. I want to be held accountable. I figure if I tell people I want to achieve something, no matter how outlandish, if I acknowledge my goals and any progress towards achieving those goals-every day- well, then I’d be too embarrassed not to do something.
5. You can’t ever tell me that I can’t do something. I react like Marty McFly did to “chicken”. I see red and will not relent until I prove you wrong, you arrogant shit…but I’ve been telling myself I can’t keep a journal for years. I’m pretty pissed at myself for being so presumptuous about my “lack” of abilities. Thing is, I’ve never been able to maintain one before because I’m a perfectionist (sometimes); I buy really pretty books to write in but I hate messing them up with my childish, BOLD CAP scrawl. So, I’ve elected to Doogie Howser it and pour it all out into my computer.
6. My life is just beginning and I’ll be dammed to give up on my dreams without a fight - I’m gonna go down swinging.
So, reader, there it is. My journey/ humiliation begins. Enjoy.