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’m too distracted to read. I do not think I like my father. Were he not my dad, I doubt I would ever choose to be in his company. I don’t like this place. There is no love or randomness or silliness, only necessity and work. There are gems here, but my dad tarnishes them all. I won’t be told what to do any longer. The only thing he is good for to me is the money. As much as I hate myself for saying it, I have no love for my father, nor any respect. He is what he is, and I don’t want him to be a part of me.

Boy, are you ever going to be surprised by the turn of events that happen in about 12 years. Anyway, my dad and I are quite different people. That’s gotta be tough for a father – and I suppose a son – to not have much common ground to stand on. It’s so weird that at this point in my life I felt so alienated by almost all of my family. No wonder I was so angry.