It's not from lack of trying. I sit here, struggling with each word, as if there is some unspoken necessity that each sentence I write must be perfect. And I know I sound like a broken record, because this ALWAYS happens, and then I ALWAYS come here and complain about it - as if that does any good. It's been like this for the past two years, and I've yet to figure out a way to overcome these obstacles. WHY is that? Why can't I just WRITE like I used to - just doing it for the enjoyment of it? Or writing because I have something I NEED to say? I can't say that I've ever been a writing genius, but at the same time, I know the writing quality I'm capable of, and it is SO much better than what I've been accomplishing.

I suppose this is what they mean when they say you should just write every day. It's obvious advice, really, but it only poses another problem: What in the world can I write about that would help me move forward instead of being trapped in an endless quest of unobtainable perfection? I need to get in the habit of writing and “letting it flow,” but using my book as practice is only driving me insane. That approach obviously isn’t working. I need something else to practice on, and there's only one alternative I can think of.

And that one alternative feels just as daunting as climbing Mt Everest.

Me and this journal haven’t seen eye to eye in years. Part of it is that I’ve grown out of it – this website represents who I was when I was 17, with all my arrogance and self importance and general teenage angst. It’s who I was when I was 19, when I orchestrated my own failure and I first began to realize that life wasn’t going to work out like I planned. It’s who I was in my early 20s, when I holed myself up in my home and played online games all day so I could ignore reality. This journal encompasses my faults, my fears, and my weaknesses, and I’ve done nothing but put it on display for the past 13 years (good GOD I'm getting old). This journal has NEVER been a good thing for me to have, and yet I’ve clung to it. Sometimes desperately, and I've yet to find the courage to let it go. Even now, I couldn’t completely turn my back on this if I tried.

So can I really travel down that road again? What point would there even be to it, when I can’t write about my job (don’t want to be fired) or my boyfriend (don’t want him going apeshit because I dare flung his name out in cyberspace - and believe me, I've been there before with my first college roommate, it's not pretty)? What else is there in my life aside from my cats, food, and TV? It’s not like I have anything else interesting going on in my world, I don’t even really have friends, and writing vague posts on my thoughts and feelings has long since become stale after the past few years. How many more posts like this can I even stomach? How long would I have to endure it before I got my writing confidence back?

And do I even WANT to try and find out?

No matter what anyone says, they think about the “what if’s.” They mull over the possibilities of what their life could have been like. And anyone who says they don’t do it are, quite frankly, not telling the truth, although I can’t really blame them for it. Socially it's a bit taboo to talk about such things, and the people of your present tend to have a nasty habit of taking personal offense to the mere thought of a past that MIGHT mean they wouldn’t be a part of your life today.

And what do I say to those people? You're right. That's totally why I like to think of where my life went wrong – to specifically factor you out of the equation. That’s why I’m confiding all of this in you, to make you feel bad. Not because you’re one of the few people in my life I trust enough to pour my heart out to, no. Not that because nothing will change no matter what I say, that my past will always be my past, and you’ll still be here and I’m glad that you are. Of course that’s not it. I’m here to insult you and ruin one of the few good things I have going in my life. Thanks for listening.

Now, I haven’t had the pleasure of enduring that conversation with anyone recently, but I have in the past, and it ironically falls into the category of “things I wish I had done differently.” It was definitely one of those “Wait, I take that back, I meant Door Number 1!” moments.

So what does all of this mean? It means I have no one to talk to right now. I’m sitting at my desk at work, struggling not to cry after being the target of insult after insult from someone I care deeply about, after being provided with a laundry list of reasons of why said person “doesn’t want to spend time with me,” and I’m left wondering where I went wrong. I mean, sure, I can openly admit that I’m a little more fucked up than the next person, but this? Feeling this way, again and again? Was it because of the left turn I made? Was Door Number 3 the wrong choice? Did I accidently piss in fate’s Cornflakes? Was I a hideously awful person in my past life? Or, worse yet, in THIS life?

I mean, seriously, not to be completely and totally depressing, but this whole life thing? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Judging by my track record, I’m obviously not cut out for this.

1 Red Pill to go, please.

I had great plans for this morning. The weather is finally getting nice, lingering in the mid 80s, and I wanted to take advantage of the morning light by sitting out on the balcony with my laptop. So that I could finally write in peace, with no coworkers selling accounts in the background, no gaming banter through a vent server, or having the TV turned on at full blast right in front of me while I'm obviously trying to read and concentrate. No interruptions. Just me and my thoughts.

Instead, I woke up this morning to find that my lap top trey was already monopolized because a certain someone's work is more important than my projects. He might make more money than me and everything, and it does really suck to work on a Saturday, but I was really looking forward to my morning writing escape. Like, waiting-for-it-all-week kind of looking forward to it.

Sure, I could go out there without a trey, balancing the laptop on my legs, but that would be extremely uncomfortable... and warm. Our apartment is east-facing, and a hot laptop in my lap would only make the Phoenix sun that much more scorching.

So, here's where I take matters into my own hands. I grabbed my laptop, a TV try, and headed to the only other "room" in our small apartment - the bedroom. I'm currently sitting on the bed, indian-style, with the lap top in front of me and the door closed. Er, well, it was closed, until he peeked his head in to see what I was doing and then didn't close it on his way out. Damnit. I think I'll continue to sit here, if nothing than but on principle alone. At least I can't hear the TV in here... that much.

This arrangement isn't so bad, really. At least I can have the overhead fan. Air circulation is one of sweet the joys in life I don't get to have very often.

I have been writing again. It's been more than a year since I started to try to write my book, and after a valiant effort last spring, I eventually took a long hiatus during the summer and winter because I became so frustrated that... well, that I just couldn't write very well. I tried and tried, and probably tried too hard, but no matter what I did I felt like I was only embarrassing myself. I knew I was trying to "wing it", so to speak, having absolutely no writing background (except for this site), or even being that much of an avid reader myself. I knew that I'd be learning along the way, but it became more and more apparent that I wasn't progressing. If anything, I was only perfecting my failure.

I never stopped thinking of my story, though. In the car, during idle minutes at work, while playing one of my silly computer games... the characters were alive in my head, still living their lives during the time that the book was to take place. My home down, present day, but set against my own memories of high school. It was all still there, and I never once stopped thinking of the possibilities of what could happen. I just had lost the motivation to actually write it all out.

Then, about four months ago, I started reading through the books in my minuscule library. I read through the Twilight series again, and all seven of the Harry Potter books. Partly because it was the holidays and it was seriously slow at work, and partly because I just wanted to see how other authors did it. These were books I loved, and I enjoyed reading them even for a second time (and a third time, in certain cases).

It's not like writing a book seemed that hard to do, really - I like writing. I always have. So what is it that keeps stopping me? Why did I have to feel like I had to try so hard to write a book, even though I knew in doing so that I was killing my entire effort? Writing is best when it feels effortless, when it flows, but there I was, thinking I had to strain myself to a sweat in order to get the same results as these other authors. Why? Why couldn't their ease and confidence rub off on me?

I began to read other books - the Vampire Academy series, especially - and these novels were a bit of an eye opener for me. They weren't written in the same "voice" as the other books I had been reading. They were casual and downright snarky, which, when I thought about it, is exactly how I used to write in this journal. Years ago, when I didn't really give a damn about what anyone thought of HOW I wrote but WHAT I had to say, back then, the writing flowed naturally. It certainly wasn't perfect writing by any means, but it wasn't a struggle. I wrote with my voice, not with the voice I thought others wanted me to have.

So, with that new found concept of "writing my way", I started out slow... I began to carry around a notepad with me, jotting down ideas. I managed to flesh out my plot in a way that had been unreachable a year ago, and last week I finally began to type it out in story form. And I tried, I really did, and once again I found I was trying too hard. It's like I would write through a few scenes, maybe half a chapter, and then I just could not continue without rereading what I had just wrote... and I would begin edit, edit, and edit some more, to the point where I was hating everything again and wondering why I bothered. Why did I keep doing this? Why did I seem so dead set on sabotaging myself?

I had only been trying for a week and I was at the end of my rope again, ready to take another 6+ month break to lick the wounds on my confidence, when I forwarded a 3 page sample of my writing to my dear friend Sandy. She was supportive, as always, and it did make me hopeful. She wouldn't lie to me, I knew, but why couldn't I see it the same way she did? What was wrong with my perspective?

I began reading articles on writing, but they weren't really helping. And that's not to say that the information was bad, or that the people were misinformed - that certainly wasn't the problem. It's just that, as with most everything I'm interested in, all the tips and tricks I was reading seemed like common sense to me. I mean, really, there are people who don't know how to develop a character? Or how to write an outline? I mean, sure, I was reading these articles looking for advise, but they weren't telling me anything that I couldn't have figured out for myself. None of them were giving me the answers I needed, and I supposed that's because I didn't know what question I needed to ask.

Then, yesterday morning, I was reading yet another article on how to write a fantasy novel. I happened to like the author of this guide a little more than the others, mostly because I have been using his software (yWriter) for the past year. His advise wasn't any different than the next guy's, really, but it was interesting to see his take on it.

Just when I had had my fill and was about to move on to the next article on my list, I stumbled across this section, half way down the page:

"Keep writing! Don't get too attached to a particular story or to your very first novel. Trust me, however good it is your writing will continue to improve the more you produce. They reckon you have to write a million words of fiction before all the pieces fall into place. How much have you done?"

And I stopped. That was a pretty good question - how much writing have I done? Fiction or not, where did I think the numbers were? I thought of this website, I thought of all the poetry I wrote years ago, the few short stories, and my efforts toward my novel last year... and good god, I've written alot. Millions upon millions of words, all out of the joy of just writing to write. Fiction or not, that has to count or something, right?

And I supposed it did, because with that mindset, I sat down and wrote nearly 3000 words yesterday. And best of all, it's the beginning of the first chapter, the introduction to my story, and writing that has been the bane of my existence for the last year. I had so many ideas in my head, but without a starting point, they seemed lost. Now it feels like it might all click into place.

I allowed myself ONE edit last night, and that's all I'm going to do. From now on, it's on and upwards. I'll finally take some of that common sense advise and write first, edit later. I just need to get this story out of my head before I go insane, and THEN working on editing. I can do this. I've written millions of words before - a 100,000 more should be a piece of delicious I-told-you-I-could-do-it cake.

I’ve never been real big on motivation, but the whole idea of becoming an author hit me fast and hard. I remember the first few weeks being frantic, like the ideas were pouring out of me faster than I was able to catch them. Even now, I’ve got about 7 or 8 plots floating around in my head; and while I like every one of them to the point that I can’t decide which direction to go, they are all missing the same thing – and ending. Creating a sufficient enough conflict and having it end in an interesting way seems to be my weak point, and it makes all of the ideas I have feel like wispy strings blowing in the wind. But that hasn’t stopped me from brainstorming about everything else.

I have a very distinct memory of telling my mother the idea for my book – I was pacing frantically back and forth in the kitchen, my arms flailing in the air, and my mother listened silently while she sat in her car. We were both on our lunch hour, and I’m pretty sure I babbled on for the full sixty minutes. It was an amazing rush to finally speak my ideas out loud, and it was only made better by the fact that she LIKED my ideas for the story. Even at the beginning I was already mulling over different options for the story, and it was nice to hear her feedback on what she thought worked the best.

I think it was around March that I convinced myself that I needed to purchase a Mini laptop (the same one I'm typing on now) so that I could have some way to write in "privacy." R is supportive of the idea of me writing a book, but he doesn’t want to know anything about it – not the plot, or the characters, nor how far along I am – and I’m assuming this is because he doesn’t want to risk saying anything that might hurt my feelings. And I get that. R is a blunt perfectionist, much like how I can be at times (and, especially, like how I USED to be – to a sickeningly annoying point), so I appreciate the fact that him keeping his distance his probably his way of avoiding saying things that I may, inevitably, take personally. Do I wish I could share my ideas with him? Would it be nice if he could help me work through the writer’s block I have for conflicts and resolutions? Sure. But, then again, I think I’d rather get through this on my OWN, and let my ideas take flight in the direction that works best for ME. I know I can do this without anyone guiding my way. I want to walk into the jungle of my thoughts alone and come out the other side with something to show for it.

The laptop was a great purchase, though – it’s served its purpose well. I have a few good memories of waking up early on a weekend morning, before R was awake, and going to the guest bedroom to write. I would make myself comfortable on the bed and listen to music (me and Peter Gabriel got REAL close) while I wrote as much as I could convince myself to. There were even a few weeknights that I did the same thing, despite being dead tired from work.

But, like everything, my motivation and inspiration comes in bursts. I’ve had long periods of downtime over the past year, where I would go months without writing a thing. And then, randomly, something would cross my mind and I couldn’t help but write it down. Sometimes what I wrote were ideas I had come up with months ago and was only now finding the correct way to go about it, and other times it was something completely different that didn’t fit with anything I had already laid out. Back stories, flash backs, details of the characters – I’m at the point where I KNOW I would like to devote the first chapter to a back story, something that sets the stage for the rest of the book, and now I’m facing the challenge of picking one from THREE possible options.

If I were to put every word I’ve ever written into a single word document, I’d be impressed if it passed 100 pages – or, hell, maybe even 50 – but after some debate, I’ve decided that’s not the point. I need to stop focusing on how much I write, and focus on WHAT I write. I need to continue writing out everything that comes to mind, as clear as I can make it, and add another string to my collection in the wind. Maybe one day I’ll get lucky and finally write something that ties it all together, but I’ll probably only stumble across that by continuing to WRITE.

After about five months of taking a “break”, I’m finally starting to work on the book again… and the only real drawback is that I don’t like anything I wrote a year ago. Naturally. Of course I wouldn’t like it! That would be EASY! And easy seems to be something that doesn’t exist in my life, but I’ll get through it. I know I’ll do it eventually, and I’ll do it right… but it does sort of suck to be back at the bottom of the same mountain I’ve been clawing at for the past twelve months.

One way or another, I WILL find my way to the other side.

On the one hand, I keep coming up with ideas for the “middle” part of my book. The more I let my mind wonder the clearer I see each character’s actions, and understand their individual struggles and motivations, during the events that cause all of their lives to transition into conflict. I see all of it, and I am anxious (and a little afraid) to write it.

However… I am also stuck. There is at least one more chapter I need to write, one that is primarily for character building and identifying, before I can even begin to set everything in motion.

I have read countless articles about writing a book, and something they all suggested was to “write the parts you want to write, and then worry about connecting them later.” This seems like an excellent idea to me, almost genius in it’s simplicity, but there’s only one problem: my obsessive need to do everything in order is preventing me from even attempting this. It seems I can’t move forward in the story unless *I* know what happens before, and this is probably because I’m not really working with an outline. I have the general ideas of where I want the story to go, but that’s it – otherwise I let the writing take me where it wants to while I just cling along for the ride. Many of the same guides that suggested I write out of order would also scold me for not working with an outline.

And, damnit, I’m still in conflict over my character’s names. I’m considering changing Ethan to Colin and Emma to either Wendy, Phoebe, Mackenzie… or some others that I can’t quite remember at the moment, because I’m never able to write them down as I think of them.

As many sims as I’ve had over the years while playing Sims 1 and 2, you’d think that something as simple as a name would be an easy task for me. It can’t really be that different, can it?

In the beginning, I was certain that I would use the name Aiden, as that is the name I had planned to name my son (should I ever have one). I blindly made this choice years ago, because at the time I just felt that the name “worked.” It was a name I could imagine myself saying lovingly and yelling in anger. But as I get older and the idea of having children seems to move further and further down my list of priorities, I reasoned that the character in my book, being my figurative “child”, could have the name instead.

However, I have been doing some mild research on different names, and I came to find out that Aiden has recently become very popular… and, naturally, that has now made it completely unappealing to me. I’m just not a fan of picking anything that is too mainstream – there was to be some uniqueness to it. Meaning, if the world were clamoring for the color white, and the extremists were picking black to stand out, I would prefer to settle for something gray.

So, if Aiden is too mainstream, then what name should I use? This was only one of the surprisingly frustrating obstacles I had to conquer before I could even begin to write, because my characters had to have their names. They simply had to. I couldn’t write about nameless people.

I initially found myself using the name Noah, and even though I was always a little indifferent about that choice, I eventually got used to it… which wasn’t what I was looking for. I don’t want to be used to my lead character’s name, as I would imagine that the reader would have to do the same thing. After much debate, I’ve since decided to try out the name Ethan, and so far this choice has made the story flow a lot better. Unlike Noah, I can actually take Ethan and his struggles seriously.

So, I’ve got the guy’s name… but what about the girl? I started off with Emily, but like Noah, it was a name I really couldn’t take seriously – especially for the role that she was supposed to play. “Emily” just wasn’t a powerful enough name. I tried out a few other names, mostly ones that began with E or A, and this had lead me to falling in love with the name “Emma.” It wasn’t until a few days after I had chosen this name did it strike me that I had unknowingly named my main character after a girl whose website I used to love. Usually name associations like that would push me toward another choice, because after that point it becomes impossible for me to not be reminded of that other person I knew who had that name. However, in this case, it actually made me like my main character more. I liked naming her after that girl whose website and creativity I used to envy.

And this is who I’m writing about – Ethan and Emma. The names sound good together, which has become some sort of odd requirement for me. I’ve come up with a lot of other names that I’ve liked, but when they didn’t sound good together I felt like I was forced to pick something different. Maybe it’s just my opinion, but you can’t write a story about a couple whose names sound like oil and water in your mouth. They have to roll off the tongue – a book is nothing but words, so the names have to read as though they belong together. The reader will imagine the rest.

But, sadly, all is not perfect, because both names being with an E. E! Counting Ethan and Emma, that would give me a total of four characters in the book whose names begin with an E. One of them I can’t change, the other one I could – but that would still leave me with three E’s, all of which are “main” characters.

Of my options, I’ve been trying to find a better girl’s name – mostly because that was the name that I struggled with the most. I figure that if I had difficulty picking it, I could probably work a little harder and do better with it if I tried. Right now, the whole name issue is bothering me enough that I’ve started to stall writing chapter three (and option to write blog entries, obviously). Important things are supposed to happen in chapter three, and the shit hits the fan in the fourth – yet here I am, delaying all of that so that I can nitpick over a name.

Over the course of the past four months, it seems as though I now have a different job than what I had six months ago. However, this isn't the result of anything that actually changed for me. This is all the result of positive things that happened to other people, like my coworkers getting promotions and a new hire joining our department. During all of the shuffle and confusion, it seems that no one noticed that I was trampled underfoot. Well, no one other than me, I should say.

I know that these things sometimes happen without intention. Today I had the opportunity to speak my mind on the issue, and I did so quite frankly, and I appreciate that the managers of my department took the time out of their day to listen to my concerns.

However, for me to be told that nothing can change, and that I need to find a way to make the current situation work, is not ok. I understand that my managers might not have a choice in telling me this, that this may be the best they can do for me right now, but unfortunately that answer is not ok for me.

So, that leaves the obvious question: "what should I next?" At first it didn't feel like I had alot of choices available to me. I'm not a fan of job hopping, and if I had to be honset, I really had envisioned myself building a career at this company. I could forsee myself planting roots and I had a pretty good feeling about the direction I wanted to go. The idea of going from that to peddling my resume around again isn't very unappealing. This is probably because I have never really had a "corporate mindset," and over the past few months I have become more and more skeptical that this is really what I should be doing my life. I mean, sure, I enjoy Data Entry - but is this really something I can do forever?

Today, I was given a very clear answer to that question. Apparently, by either my own choice or someone else's, the answer is no.

So, after careful thought, I have decided to start saving my money. I always say I'm going to do that, but this time I mean it - because when I finally do finish my book, I will get an agent. And when I get an agent, I will get published. And once I am published I should have a reasonable idea of whether or not I will be able to embark on my new career: being a full time writer. I feel pretty confident that I can do it - I just happen to have a long, grueling road ahead of me.

I will use my experience today as motivation to push myself forward. I am more valuable than to simply be told that I "must find a way" to make a miserable situation work, and I will prove it.

It's time to pull up Open Office and put my money where my mouth is... quite literally.

This is why I've been fairly content with my current career path, even if it doesn't put me on the road to wealth and riches. If it came down to a do or die choice, I would prefer to live modestly for the sake of being able to wake up in the morning and not completely hate my life for the next 8-10 hours that I'm at work. And that's how my life is right now - I can wake up in the morning and really have no remorse or regret about having to go to work that day. In my own way, I enjoy the fact that I prove my father wrong every single work day, as he couldn't seem to fathom the idea of having a job that you didn't absolutely despise. I was always taught that you would never like your job - and yet, here I am, content where I am.

Or am I?

Despite my skepticism, I have always been a creative person. I have kept this website open since the summer of 1997. In the beginning, web pages and graphic design took the place of my hobby of drawing. It also took the place of my career plans, because I went from being a "Cartoonist for Disney" to "Graphic Designer with an office in New York."

For a long time, I primary web pages and filled them with text. Over time, however, my web pages became text surrounded by a web page. If I really had to be honest with myself, that is the real reason why I continue to pay $9/month for this website, the real reason why it just doesn't feel right not to have some place on the internet... because what if I needed to write? What if I simply had to, wherever would I put it? On my hard drive maybe, where no one would ever see? No, that won't do. That was always the thing about my writing. I couldn't just do it - someone had to read it or it was as if it didn't exist. My writing is that poor tree that falls in the forest - someone needs to hear it or else the very existence of the action is in question. If no one reads what I wrote, was it really written at all?

And so, we come full circle - me dealing with this dilemma of needing to want to do something, yet having all of this really unappealing stuff I have to do in order to be successful. And I'm fairly certain I'm happy, but what if I took a harder look at the things I want to do? What if, hiding right under my nose, there was something I wanted to that I could also be successful at?

The idea of being a writer is something I've tossed around before. I've mentioned it whimsically in this journal a few times already, and usually nothing came of it. This is primarily because that while I may be able to write to a sufficient degree, I always seemed to fall sort of coming up with an actual story. Minor detail, right? Exactly. If you can't come up with a story you might as well enter data into a computer all day which, what do you know, that's exactly what I've been doing for the past four years.

But what if... I came up with something. An idea, with a full group of characters and a world of conflict. What if... I feel really good about it. And what if... I was already on Chapter 2.

Maybe I could be a writer. Maybe I really could do this, and maybe I'd even excel at it. Maybe writing a book could be the first thing I would ever be proud to say that I do.

Although, it will take some time for me to keep a straight face when saying "I'm a writer." Has anyone ever been able to say that without all those within earshot immediately thinking that this person must be one of the most pretentious, self righteous messes that they'd never want the displeasure of talking to? The audacity of someone calling themselves a "writer!" How about calling yourself a princess and asking me to kiss your feet while I'm at it!

On second thought... maybe that's a perfect fit for me.

Today was the end of a 7 month long wait, but in the eyes of this teenager it had felt like all of her life had been spent building to this moment. Over dramatic and always right, this was when her life would finally start to make sense. The mountain of expectation of this moment had never seem to fully settle in to reality until the arrival announcement was made and the terminal door was propped open. He would soon be walking through that door.

Ten years ago today a 16 year old girl sat in the back set of her parents car as they drove through the parking garage of Regan National Airport. She was quiet and awkward, realizing for the first time that she had never really thought about what would happen after their initial meeting, having for so long assumed that it wouldn't go well, that she would be unwanted... until the 16 year old boy sitting across from her reached for and took her hand in his. She looked at him and smiled, genuinely surprised by the gesture, but kept her hand loosely gripped to his for the rest of the hour trip home.

Ten years ago today a girl was caught by surprise, mid sentence, by a kiss from a 16 year old boy. Standing in her bedroom under the bright light of the fan, her first time physically alone with him, the thought had not even crossed her mind as she babbled mindlessly about the decorations in her room. She looked up at him with wide eyes, barley having time to acknowledge the moment of her first kiss, while he stared back at her unapologetically. His reasoning was only a blunt confession: "I had been wanting to do that all day."

Ten years ago today a very childish girl made a very adult choice no more than 10 hours after first holding hands with a 16 year old boy, no more than 7 hours after her first kiss. Over confident and always right, she felt there was no point in waiting for a better opportunity than the present. This was where her future was finally starting to begin, and anxious for it to finally start, she vowed would be as close to him as she could possibly be from that moment on. A willing participant in the end of their innocence, she couldn't wait to see how much better tomorrow would be.

I acknowledge the anniversary of this day every year, but there was a very long period of my life where I struggled with the ramifications of the decisions I made that day. The person I was at 16 is a stranger to me, with the distance strengthened over time by my resentment for my carelessness and youthful ignorance. Life is riddled with crossroads - it is usually only after we have chosen our path that the options we once had before us start to be come clear, helping illuminate the unknowing mistakes in our judgment. Ten years ago today I committed my first distinguishable regret. I don't think I will ever reach a place where I can forgive the version of myself who never had a second thought of what that decision could lead to, whether it be because she couldn't have known any better or because I'm just not the forgiving type. But, now that I have finally reached a state of peace in my mental health, can I take a moment and acknowledge this dark anniversary in my foolish past. It's part of who I am and what lead me to here, and although I am never one to shy away from entertaining the ideas of where I could be if I had done things differently, for the first time in a long time... I don't see the point in it.

For as bad as my memory is, I still have very vivid memories of the time I finally started to pay attention to the price of gas. While I drove my family's 93 Chevy S10 during my senior year of high school, my father was the one who took care of the general maintenance of the vehicle - including keeping the tank full at all times. It wasn't until I was away at Radford University and my two close friends, Michelle and Dave, both had vehicles to maintain and budget for with their own money that it became something that I actually had a conversation about it with another person. My first year of college was also the same year that 9/11 happened, which is exactly why I finally started to take note of the price - as after the towers were hit the amount per gallon started to legitimately climb for the first time in almost 20 years.

I specifically remember a time when Dave and I were about to take a somewhat usual trip to Blackburg, in order to pick up Nadia from Virginia Tech for the weekend, and hearing Dave grumble and bitch about how the price had shot up to $1.68 and the following 20 minute conversation about how fucked up that was. In a lot of ways, my recent reality check over something as simple as the price of gas is tied directly to that memory. It has more to do with that time of my life than it does with something as relatively insignificant as how much it costs me to put gas in my car, and it's making my thoughts dwell on a lot of things that usually stay blissfully forgotten.

I could do without seeing the price drop to $1.68.