I never like to write on the left side.

I can barely read my handwriting.

You shouldn’t write in what looks like a journal in a public place,

You just end up looking lonely.

I forgot my age yesterday, strange, I don’t feel 20.

Gotta come up with a way to remember the important things.

I want to remember, honest.

I confess, I’m an abuser of notebooks, written in for a week or two and then discarded.

I rip out pages every 2 or 3 days because they don’t make sense, or I want to start over.

As if ripping out these pages gives me a clean slate, scratch that, a clean sheet of paper to write on.

I need to forget.

I’ve had this notebook since Christmas though, it’s been four months.

I think I get it now. Every journal entry from before, every story or book attempt never stood a chance.

Retention: that’s not how I tick.

I’m jumbled up letters in Scramble.

A novelist draft, crunched up in paper balls by the waste basket.

Sporadic IMBD quotes and YouTube comments.

Brevity is the key, memory is the curse.

I got this notebook for my birthday, did I tell you?