Monday, January 23, 2012

Old Journal Love

Last week, while nursing a wine hangover on a Sunday, I made the terrible choice to watch back -to- back episodes of Hoarders. Don't judge. Train-wreck television has it's advantages. One of which is the overwhelming desire to go down into your basement and immediately discard several boxes worth of paper that you are holding onto for no reason whatsoever. Very cleansing.

While I was wading through the morass, I stumbled upon several old journals that I kept while in university. It was a wince-fest, interweb. A rabbit hole of angst. They were so full of melancholy and over-wrought emotion that, at one point, I wondered why I hadn't burned them in a cleansing fire. But then I got to this entry and then I realized why I had held onto them all of these years. Never mind that I made the shocking realization that all I have ever done is make lists (!) but every once in a while I would write something so pointless that it brought me to tears.

So, for your reading enjoyment, I have chosen a plumb entry for you to howl at. I haven't posted a date because I want you to believe that this was waaaaaay in my past. Also: Don't feel bad for thinking less of me here. It really is a living, breathing Adele song well before it's time, y'all.

God I need a boyfriend! How long can I go on like this!! Do want reasons, journal? I'll give you a few:

  • I have some tough jars that need opening. I'm doing THAT by myself.
  • I need someone to make laugh when I've smoked a joint. I'm watching Roseanne instead.
  • I don't understand why listening to Lionel Ritchie "Hello" is annoying to my neighbour. I boy might have pointed that out sooner.
  • I want to tell someone about watching a dog eating concrete when I was thirteen but none of my girlfriends seemed to be interested. Maybe a boy would?
  • Hearing "I can't even imaging the TYPE of guy you're going to end up with....." is compromising some of my more fragile female relationships. Some of my male one's, too, come to think of it.
  • I went out with a guy who makes sculptures out of stale bread. For more than a week.
  • I spent a half-hour listening to a physicist friend of a friend explain the term "gravitational pull" to me - a term I understood! - just so that I could stare at at this cute beauty mark he had just under his eye.

Too much. By the way, I married the guy described in the last entry. It was between him and the bread sculptor. I think I made the right choice.

Thanks journal!


  1. I once dated a bread sculptor too. And you have made me laugh on the last melancholy, hormone-whipped day of my second (and I think last) maternity leave. XO. ALP