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.

And around them, I am so shy I am ashamed of myself. I have no idea what I should do or say or act or anything, so all I do is think. I don’t want it. I want to have action, to fucking do. I’ve got to break out of this family shell. Besides money, what have they done? They’ve only broken me. I’ve got to get out.

I spent a lot of years hating on my mom’s side of the family, but their only crime is being content and a little boring. Thankfully, I’m over it now. I’m really looking forward to seeing all of them this Christmas. I like hearing stories about small towns and cows. That’s not sarcasm. I really do.