I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

I know it’s wrong, it always was. But I know I want back in. I can’t go, there’s something desperately wrong about the whole thing. What I need now is to forget. Why won’t she let me?

Oh sure, blame her. So here’s young me, pining for a girlfriend while at the same time lamenting that my ex-girlfriend (who was perfectly nice and which I dumped) is still talking to me. Boo fucking hoo.

I ran into my first girlfriend years later at a video store, and we were both laughing about how many issues I had. The fact that she was willing to talk to me and have a genuine laugh over how much I tortured us both in the year or so we were together is a testament to how cool she was and is.