It's my birthday, I can hide if I want to...
Although I've been doing a very good job of that the past, er, months. Ack.
I've never really been comfortable with the idea of a journal. Partly a privacy goes personal issue, partly genuine disbelief that anyone could be interested, but most of the trouble stems from the one diary I kept back when my depression first hit me at 11-something. Fun. I burned that bastard thing when I found it a few years later, and until this, any assignment that required keeping a journal I cheerfully failed. This journal has survived mostly due to its nature; As long as I treat it like a letter to friends, it's okay. Kinda. I generally keep the bad crap to myself, which is why I've not been writing of late. There's been all kinds of bad stuff going on, nothing life-threatening, just upsetting/discomfiting/bloody awkward. I find myself writing up journal posts mentally, then have the wits to just leave it. When interesting, cool or even mildly good stuff happens, I'll get back into posting.
So. I'm 35. Strange, never imagined myself in my thirties. I easily envisioned myself in my fifties and seventies, but my brain obviously skipped this time period. Wonder why.
Mum drove out here to Bab's in the pouring cold rain to bring me dinner, ice cream and cake. Mmm. Lemon slice. So now I'm overly full.
Only other thing I can think of mentioning is that I'll be meeting Chris F. on Sunday as local tour guide on his flypast back to the US. Might be meeting Baz. Hoping to go on the London Eye, as I've still not done that.
And that is it. 35. Rah.
I've never really been comfortable with the idea of a journal. Partly a privacy goes personal issue, partly genuine disbelief that anyone could be interested, but most of the trouble stems from the one diary I kept back when my depression first hit me at 11-something. Fun. I burned that bastard thing when I found it a few years later, and until this, any assignment that required keeping a journal I cheerfully failed. This journal has survived mostly due to its nature; As long as I treat it like a letter to friends, it's okay. Kinda. I generally keep the bad crap to myself, which is why I've not been writing of late. There's been all kinds of bad stuff going on, nothing life-threatening, just upsetting/discomfiting/bloody awkward. I find myself writing up journal posts mentally, then have the wits to just leave it. When interesting, cool or even mildly good stuff happens, I'll get back into posting.
So. I'm 35. Strange, never imagined myself in my thirties. I easily envisioned myself in my fifties and seventies, but my brain obviously skipped this time period. Wonder why.
Mum drove out here to Bab's in the pouring cold rain to bring me dinner, ice cream and cake. Mmm. Lemon slice. So now I'm overly full.
Only other thing I can think of mentioning is that I'll be meeting Chris F. on Sunday as local tour guide on his flypast back to the US. Might be meeting Baz. Hoping to go on the London Eye, as I've still not done that.
And that is it. 35. Rah.