Edited version published in 2024.

This is a Journal.

Across time, journals have been used for so many different purposes.

Write down your thoughts, spread your ideas, then close the lid and never let anyone see them.

Yep, Journals are great for the insane and closeted. Or just those who have trouble expressing themselves vocally.

I fall into the later third option.

You see, I have Dysgraphia, so many people won’t be able to read this. It’s a bullshit disease that is particularly impactful on handwriting and anything that has to do with steady hand control. Sometimes, I just write words that aren’t even in my head; they appear on this page, and I have to go back and fix it. It’s bullshit. It’s also likely genetic, but I won’t have kids, so that’s a-ok.

Why start writing a journal? My girl left me. She fucking blipped out. I had a breakdown, called a psychiatrist friend of mine, and she suggested I start this shit. I don’t know who I’m writing to, but I'm assuming you know me, or you just found this on a random corpse who wears a lot of dark shades.

These are my thoughts and feelings. Feelings have friends, but can a thought be lonely? Ask my students as they seem to have so few. I don't remember having friendly feelings. I know I have them, but I can’t seem to remember where they went. Everything is pastel. My highs are always straining for the middle bar of excitement, and my lows are deep and well-entrenched. I don’t remember the last time I felt true joy, with the exception of surfing on a nice clean wave with no one else near me.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This world sucks. Everything feels like a race, and everyone is so in-tune with social media and trying to outperform each other that contentment is seen as a disease of the past few generations.

Is that what I did wrong? Was I too content? Is that why she left?

I’m gonna shrug it all off by tomorrow, I’m sure. It’s another day at work, another lesson to give. Hopefully, my students understand something in my teaching.

I Hope.

Original version published in 2023.

From the day before

This is a Journal…..Jourrrrnall. I own it. My name isn’t important.

I have Dysgraphia, so many people won’t be able to read this. It’s a bullshit disease that is particularly impactful on handwriting and anything that has to do with steady hand control. Sometimes I just write words that aren’t even in my head, they appear on this page, and I have to go back and fix it. It’s bullshit. It’s also likely genetic but I’m not gonna have kids, so that’s aaaaaaaaaa-okkkkkk.

Why start writing a journal? My girl left me. She fucking blipped out. I had a breakdown, called a psychiatrist friend of mine, and she suggested I start this shit. I don’t know who I’m writing to, but I'm assuming you know me or you just found this on a random corpse who wears a lot of dark shades.

These are my thoughts and feelings. Feelings have friends, but can a thought be lonely? Ask my students as they seem to have so few. I don't remember having friendly feelings. I know I have them, but I can’t seem to remember where they went. Everything is pastel. My highs are always straining for the middle-bar of excitement and my lows are deep and well entrenched. I don’t remember the last time I felt true joy, with the exception of surfing on a nice clean wave with no one else near me.

This world sucks. Everything feels like a race, and everyone is so in-tune with social media and trying to outperform each other that contentment is seen as a disease of a past generation.

Is that what I did wrong? Was I too content?

I’m gonna shrug it all off by tomorrow I’m sure. It’s another day at work, another lesson to give. Hopefully, my students understand something in my teaching.

I Hope.