Journals

My blog has literally just turned into a dramatic bitching space. And I mean, that's cool. I guess. But my best writing has been out into the journals I have sitting next to my bed. Some are the scariest fucking books and some are the best. Finding a suicide journal from middle school was not something I was excited nor proud to find, but it's there. Or a journal entitled "Why I hate myself" and it basically being filled. Whoooooo. But I also found a journal dedicated to inventing words that rhyme with "orange" and a detective notebook about weird things that went on my life. It used the word "suspicious" a lot more than it should.

This is why I keep them. But being reminded of a past where I meant nothing to anyone or myself kinda brings me down.