Old letters, bills, some white pantyhose (where the FUCK did those come from?), beat up photos of people I don't remember and some I want to forget, and a journal from high school.

Oh my god. I have been dragging this thing around with me for nearly a decade and didn't even know it. Yeah I move a lot. Never really fully unpack. What's the point?

I flipped through the pages. Not a lot of happy memories in here. I was the strange girl who always wore black, kept to herself and just drew pictures. Nobody would talk to me. For good reason too, since I would tell them to fuck off if they did. It's hard enough trying to make it through this goddamn life without idiots stumbling around in front of me, know what I mean?

Well times have changed. Now I am the strange woman that always wears black, keeps to herself and draws for money. People still don't talk to me, and I still don't care. Mostly.

I have one friend in the world. No, it's not my therapist! The only reason I talk to that pig is because he has a fat prescription pad.

My boyfriend Ian and I get along for one reason. He does not understand me and he is OK with that. He doesn't try. He is perfectly happy with me just as I am without trying to make sense of it. No explanations needed.

Oh and he fucks like a beast. A lot of men I have dated wanted to "make love" to me. Ian and I just want to forget we are human and get lost in the numbing bliss of post-coital glow.

So anyway, I found my old journal. I don't know why I carried it around this long, but it's time to let it go.  I painted over every page with black acrylics. It seemed like a fitting close to an empty childhood.

And now, I have started a new one. It can't be any worse. Can it?