What am I now?
I threw away my journal the other day because what had once been a safe place of reflection and self-discovery became a snake-pit. For three years, ever since coming back from Spain, I’ve written in these notebooks. I’ve hidden them from my parents, forgotten them at the beach, and have ripped out pages to blow my nose and spit out my gum. They’ve held everything from classes I’d be taking at UH and now-forgotten classmates’ contact info, poems I’d written while perusing the poetry section at Borders, even planned parenthood centers. They became my “woobie,” a nice quilt to cuddle my insecurities and cape my triumphs. I chucked the ol’ woobie in Tamarind Square after reading through months worth of complaining and bitching, and **blech* * A canvas for my thoughts had become an ugly graffitied wall. I was a little angry at myself, I’m guilty of journal abuse! Take me away constable. If and when I decide to begin another journal, I’ve got to lay down some rules, like a positive entry every three or four entries. Or something like that.
Onto other subjects: work’s going great; it’s nice to have positive cashflow; too scared to leap now, I wonder if someone will be there?
**And to all those f****** who like to leave comments under the names “free slots,” “viagra,” “home loan(s),” “blackjack,” and “free credit check” can at least write me a daily quote when posting your e-marketing crap so I can at least be amused and annoyed. Much mahalos there.