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.

Jealousy is so ugly, it pains me to look into its face, yet here I am left wondering – am I good enough, funny enough, friendly enough to deserve all this? I still don’t think I deserve it, but the monsters bow to me now and I tell them that I won’t compete with someone because then I’m left hollow with them. I know what I have is true and what I think is silly.

I’m always hard on myself, and even today I’ll catch myself mentally chewing myself out over something stupid. I mean really stupid, like for not doing the dishes. I should take it easier on myself. I like me.