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.

Should I die before I am due, By who’s had I won’t say, Do not let her know. If she is at my grave, It tears her up inside, Pray, do not let her know. If you know of eyes of blue, Or read and understand later forever, Tell all the world if you must, But, do not let her know. Have her mourn a friend, Not the love she never knew, Please, do not let her know.

When you’re a suicidal teenager, fantasizing about your own funeral - and how it will really show everyone what’s really up - is how you spend most of your free time. This, though, is just taking the fantasy too far. Who could resist telling my fantasy girlfriend at my fantasy funeral that I was fantasy in love with her. Who, I ask you? Who?