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.

Oh that I hope to be so brave and so full of myself that I can bring myself to say what I must. But not only is it a matter of bravery, no, it is a matter of honor. Never could I condemn her to time spent with one, I feel, she goes to only out of a need for something. One so disrespected in some social circles. From that lack of respect will come a lessening of the popularity she carries now. Bound by honor am I.

Damn it, I hate entries like this. Please, everyone, learn from my mistakes. No matter how strong you think a memory will be at the time its happening, fifteen years will still rob you almost entirely of it. I have no idea who I’m referring to here, and I wish so strongly. Take careful notes, people. Seriously.