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.

The day someone used my love was a quick. Phone call came and went, while in between I frantic counted money I desired for self, but gave up to another in need and then they laughed at me. They didn’t get my anger through their drunken haze. Confused at my not wanting to re-pick up that phone. Users never win, and though forgiven, the wound will still be there and the fear that my love will be used again.

For once, I know exactly what I’m talking about. One of my friends called me in my room, crying, and told me she was in jail and needed money to get bailed out. I can’t remember the amount, but she said if I went to where she lived and picked up her checkbook, I could use that. I actually happened to have a stack of cash, so I said no need for the check, I could just show up and pay. She said she also needed her ID though, so could I please get her purse. No problem. I scrambled to get my money together, then raced to my car and drove to her place to find she was at home and the whole thing was a drunken plan by the house to get me to come over without my girlfriend which they hated. I was so pissed off because I felt used, and that they’d pulled my heart strings for a laugh (and you can see how angry I am in my penmanship). I forgave them, but I still think it was a fucked up thing to do. Just call me and ask me to come over without my girlfriend. That would have worked just fine.