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.

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I’ve got a boredom with no outlet. A boredom that makes me feel like I should drink or fuck. That just wouldn’t do. I don’t want to be here right now. Anything that would release me from living with these assholes would be wonderful. Everything annoys me now. I’ve begun to think of death again.

Jesus, if it makes you feel that way, just quit. Oh, that’s right, you do.