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.

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She lingers in my mind, now all the time.

The memories still linger, she’s at the tips of my fingers.

Momentos strewn about, make me want to shout,

“Why is this happening?”

When I read this journal, it feels like a brain funeral.

Because every entry’s the same, about me being lame.

Others reading this tripe, probably want to type,

“wtf”