Joan Didion said that people who keep notebooks are “anxious malcontents,” children with “some presentiment of loss.” I don’t know if I was born like that, but it feels close enough. There’s a weird safety in the act of writing something down and not having to explain it. It’s like my own, little and very personal fortress built from weird references and collapsing moods.

Didion also makes me think I’ve never kept a journal for the sake of truth either, at least not truth as fact. If someone tried to piece together my life from these posts, they’d probably think I was an unwell crazy fuck, or at least unsteady. Most likely that’s the most honest part of all this. These entries don’t track anything linear. No progress bar. No clear story. Just strobe lights of feeling, weird thoughts about bosses, bodies, unsent letters to people, some addictions here and there, and that dinosaur seeing the electric fence turned off (still proud of that one, to be honest).

I shape shift for work. For people. For strangers. This is the only place I don’t.
Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.