Oh the hilarity.
A journal. A log. A Diary. Documented nonsense. What have you. Here it is. Stretching back to mid 2003. And I've got MicrochipGirl stretching back even furthur. Want more? There's Datura22. Jesus. It's funny how many crushes one can have in their early to mid twenties. I seem to have had my share, and I seem to have embellished every last one. It's fun/funny to look back at all that perfectly and piningly padded angst. It's also comforting to say what should be said without having to pose a million and two questions with the intention (I can only surmise at this stage in my life) of convincing myself that I could turn every pretty boy into the perfect thing. Don't get me wrong -- the questions were fun. There's a certain charm in guessing and wishing and cyncicism combined with outright hypocritical love-lust, but it just can't compete with wisdom. I'd like to be able to say I'm not embarrassed by anything I've ever written or felt, but that's impossible. I can, however, say that there is only vague embarassment at the notion of feeling embarassment. I'd laugh if it weren't so terribly humiliating.