In spite of my attempts to wait for the slightly less crowded streetcar this morning, my commute remained akin to that of a tinned sardine. Sweaty people to the front, some weird puddle of brown goop to the left, and a woman writing in her journal to the right.
Journal lady reminded me that I, too, once journaled on a daily basis. I have two solid years worth of late-night, tear-stained, melodramatic essays on my teenage life. It’s equal part glorious and depressing. Present Maggie is thrilled that past Maggie had the foresight to document these exceptionally formative years. My journals start January 1st, 2000, which was the last half of my final school year in Toronto, and the beginning of my time in the UK. Eventful, to say the least.
Here are some choice excerpts from my first few days at boarding school:
September 5, 2000
“I broke my mug, mom broke the suitcase and she left her raincoat here. I hate the transition stages, they’re the worst.”
September 6, 2000
“Some of the guys here are pretty hot, but lots of them have acne problems, which makes me feel better.”
September 7, 2000
“History is frightening and so is Chapel. Lots of the teachers are scary, some seem like assholes and others seem quite friendly.”
September 8, 2000
“Boys are so hot when they play pool.”
September 9, 2000
“Did I mention how sexy guys are when they play pool?”
Every night before I went to bed I’d nestle in and write. Sometimes just a paragraph, and sometimes an epic novel. It was a ritual. One that I lost, and one that I miss. And one that I’d like to start again. So I’m starting now. I’m going to rustle up a journal, and commit to writing something in it every night. And I will be (hopefully, consistently) complementing it with a witty and informative blog post.