At the preservation of memory, I am hopelessly unskilled. The process of journaling is, for me, an exercise in necessity rather than an act of catharsis. I have such lousy memory that sometimes I feel like I’m like a grown man who’s woken up from a fugue state and has to piece together his life from the specific artifacts of the room he finds himself in. I like these plants, I’d wear these clothes, the cover art and blurb of these books don’t offend me. This must be my life! Well, no more. My days of Jason Bourne’ing are over, and this entry is testament to that.
The internet, as a repository of my personality, is the perfect place to start my newest chapter in self-reflection. But I’d be lying if I said this was just about me. On the off chance these words reach even a modest audience I would like, at the very least, to present myself as a mildly entertaining internet persona worthy of public endorsement. In short: I hope this doesn’t suck, and in medium: If this does suck, rest assured that better efforts are coming. I have 29 years of lived experiences ready to unleash on the world, and some of it has to be good.
