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.

My cluttered room, in a similar way to a cluttered mind, is well on its way to driving me insane. Having to carefully step between pizza boxes, books & trash just to lay a foot on the rarely seen carpet is going to be the death of me. All anyone wants is to be appreciated, but I feel ill at ease in this area. The room goes to pot and no one cares, they just look to me for when I’ll clean. I am not to be regaled for being a garbageman. Perhaps I’m being anti-social, but I have no desire to be kind to thos who would oppress me. That is how I feel, cramped in by the clutter and thankless demands of those who do nothing to reciprocate. More later.

I lived with three other people, all of whom were slobs, in a pretty small dorm room. On top of this, I’m a neat freak, so obviously I hated how messy the place always was. Thankfully all my roommates were also my friends, so it was easier for me to forgive them for being messy, and it was easier for them to forgive me for chewing their ass about being cleaner.