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 write about her to remember. It doesn’t matter if they accept the story or not. What I have cannot be measured by words. I do it injustice, but I must. It is all that helps me to see what she looks like.

Oh, fucking priceless! I had forgotten all about this. One of my writing projects during this time, where I’m trying to get into anything I can, was writing the story of Sarah and I for a romance magazine. I wish I still had it. All I remember is that after reading my first draft, I knew I had to pump it up more, so I threw in a lot of extra meetings between us. It never did get published. Thank Jesus!