I've never been good at keeping a journal. A personal one, anyway. Whenever I start one I either forget to write in it after a while, or I go back to read older entries and I think to myself, "Damn, I was stupid" which leads to the same result. Recently, I received a journal as a present, and considering how the last year and a half has been going, I figured I was overdue to excrete some emotional vomit that no one else really gives a shit about.

So, I've been writing in the damn thing for a couple days now, and surprisingly I enjoy it. The decreased risk of murderous rage is a plus, which I think is something we can all appreciate. It's nice to put my thoughts in order again. I get confused from time to time. Like the incident with the riding lawnmower. And that summer when the circus was in town.

That being said, I hope I can stick with writing in it, because I want to, and I think I really should, especially with my track record of mental and emotional instability. Even the ol' Liz-meister gets frustrated with all the douchebaggery that comes with being alive. Besides, people with socially-crippling personality disorders can't live by blogging and booze alone. Well, okay. I can. This is just me being mature for once. I guess this means I'm on my way to becoming a real boy, thanks blue fairy!