Fuel for the Journal Fire

Written in 2011, edited right now:

Facts will be absolutely lost here. I'm almost embarrassed to write it all down.

I am...
5'11"
175 pounds(to my dissatisfaction)
scared for Hamilton
smitten, holy shit am I ever
tired
surprisingly not sick
addicted to lifesavers mints, of the wintergreen variety
stoked that vanilla coke is back
not willing to live on this planet anymore
foolish
so unmotivated
sick of work

My key gets caught in my thick glove and I awkwardly struggle until I'm released from my woolen chain, and then we hug. A tight, deep hug. We walk around campus and get some dinner just as it begins to snow. We walk to the hockey game, my arm linked in yours, and I silently beg for a kiss as the snow whirls around us. I am happy.

This is really random and the thoughts are being written down as they pop into my brain. If anyone else ever reads this, I'm sorry, but in my defense, you shouldn't be reading this.

Spring semester of my senior year of high school I was so desperate for a date to prom I seriously looked into buying a cardboard cutout of Justin Bieber.

Your Mom is making a cheesecake for my graduation party. I think that means she likes me, but I fucking hate cheesecake.

Being a Jan at Hamilton is probably the most confusing, frustrating and upsetting thing that has ever happened to me.

Sometimes when I drive past your house at night and I see your light on I think about the night I laid in your bed and stared out the window while you talked about the war that waged outside, and maybe it was just a cheap ploy to keep me there and half naked, but maybe there was some truth to that, and maybe it finally caught up to us.





It's exactly what no one else can see that makes it so significant.





2015:
I like to think that I am so far from whence I came, yet I am convinced that I know just as much now as I did when I was five, and in a lot of ways the excerpts above from 2011 prove it to me. I hope when I find this journal, and the one from this semester, that I still carry that same humor, my same brand of stream-of-consciousness writing that pays no mind to time, my reverence for love and my unwillingness to quit it, and most importantly my ability to laugh at myself.