January to January: A Journal

January

January 1

Today is New Year's, the best time to start a journal. Not that this was wholly my choice, but best not to waste a perfectly good gift (who was this from anyway? Who cares?). I've never written a journal before, and it feels weird just putting every strand of thought straight into words on this page. Patty (Patrice, actually, but she'll bite the head off anyone who calls her that. She's the weirdest friend you can find on this planet – and possibly even beyond too, ancient astronaut theorist that she is. But to make up for the weirdness, she has the one quality I seek in anyone: loyalty. And that's enough for me to declare her my BFF) said the best way to write a journal was to just not think about it and vomit everything out. I wonder what her own journal looks like (possibly filled with drawings of green oblong-headed creatures...or are they supposed to be gray?), or if she even keeps one. She tends to be a know-it-all. That's what being a psychology major will do to you. Anyway, enough about her. She already dominates the real world with her big personality, she shouldn't be the star in MY journal.

I like doing things in order, so maybe a little bit of something about me first. Hi, Journal. I'm your owner. I'm nothing special, but I'm not insignificant. I know my faults but I have my own unique talents too. I love origami and can fold the crap out of any square into any flower, bird, or animal you can think of. Well, thirty shapes actually. And that's something else about me: I get carried away very quickly and digress a lot. I think the best way to describe me would be a wide river, calm on the surface but with a strong uncontrollable current beneath. They scare me to death (rivers, I mean), but it's the best metaphor I can find that describes me perfectly. Let's see, what else? So, I don't like rivers, or seas, or going to the beach. I almost drowned many times as a child (in swimming pools, but nobody needs to know that bit of embarrassing ancient history), and never took to swimming. But I like soothing blue and green colors, which dominate my wardrobe (FYI: I'm known with no small amount of envy among my friends as "Little Boy Blue", because I dress almost always in blue – Duh! – and because people always mistake me for a high school student). Anyway, I can name all the kinds of blues and greens in a Pantone catalog (I consider this an achievement, so shut up!). I'm also a frustrated artist. I love music, but am tone deaf and don't have enough of a voice for even the most desperate of choirs. I love paintings, but cannot draw to save my life. I love theater and dance, but I shut down when everyone's eyes are on me. I love food and hate exercise, but who doesn't?

Moving on...things I don't like: humid days, traffic, the usual things that a life in the city brings. On the more serious side, I don't like traitors, liars, hypocrites. I remember every promise, and will hold you to your word. So, Journal, you better not promise what you can't give me. As a matter of fact, I can still remember every promise made to me since I was five years old. Most were not fulfilled. As to the people making those promises, oddly enough, I can't always recall who they were or what they looked like. Patty said that people tend to remember faces more than names. I fail at both. People generally just don't interest me. But I love (absolutely adore!) cats! If I get reincarnated, I want to be a pampered cat in my next life. Fat, sleepy, and adored just for existing.

So far, I can't think of anything else. That's it for this entry then. Good introduction, wouldn't you say, Journal? I think I'll start addressing you as a real person. Makes it less weird I'm rambling to myself. First journal entry ever: check.

January 4

So everything's back to its usual boring natures, nothing much to report. Was too tired. This is the worst feeling ever, worse than sadness or anger or what-have-you. It's the deadness that fills the air moment to moment, like all the things that make life special have been sucked out and all we have is a desiccated corpse of a world. It's the eternal trap: make merry now, and wait until the ennui of later days to come springing at you to make you regret not having partied harder. So we party harder, right? And the deadness becomes heavier as we remember the extremely good times before. A vicious cycle. I hate the world.