Dear Journal

We have a cupboard under our stairs, ya know, just in case Harry Potter wants to visit or if those Oompa Loompahs need a magic little door to come out of to finally roll me away.

A couple of years ago, in an effort to clean/organize our ever growing toy emporium, I packed up a few boxes of books, cds, et al and placed them in the cupboard under the stairs-- out of sight, out of mind. Since the recent house boat simulation, Dan had to empty out that secret storage space and found a box of water drenched journals. Journals that I had started in high school. My heart raced as I quickly asked, "Did you read them?" I haven't read them in a loooooooong time, but I know that they are filled with irrational rage as a result of much unrequited love. My second comment was, "Just throw them away." I didn't even want to read them. If I thought it was tough tapping into that inner Kristen who can socialize in a pink sweater, I didn't even want to try to tap back into angst ridden, Ani DiFranco listening, barely eating Kristen. Yuck. Good riddance to her!

But he wouldn't let me throw them away, so they lay open on top of the dryer, attempting to dry out. And I couldn't help but read a few of the pages, which led me to read a few more of the pages. There are letters that were never sent, letters that were written with no intention to ever be sent, quotes, quips, "poems," and a whole load of emotionally charged run on sentences.

Most of pages are matted together and on many of them the writing has been smeared, becoming illegible, from a combination of time and water, and I kind of like the fact that that phase of my life is quite literally being washed away.