Getting This Far

A person who is very important to me, and who figures very prominently into the beginnings of this blog, likes to tease me for my journal reading. He and I have argued, and laughed, and finally reached a standstill, in our debate over whether or not me reading his journal (once upon a time) is the same as him reading my blog.

I say it is the same, and I am always right.

However, recently--between discussions on the complexity of my taxes--other conversations that he and I have had, have made me think a lot about journaling. About writing as a vehicle for self-discovery. About all of you readers and why it is I like having you in my life. About why it is that you might come to Bellow, and why it is you seem to be so invested in the craziness of my strange and great and shitty adventures.

Anyway, it's made me look back on some of my old entries, both here and in my college computer files. The result being that I moan a lot and laugh. GOD, and cringe at the stupid boys I've dated, and at my own ridiculous maudlin teenage/twenty-something angst.

Well, I'm not really sure why I feel like doing this. I guess it's kind of the equivalent of the"Looking Back At the Seasons We've Spent Together" episode of the sitcom that's about to have its Series Finale, but I wanted to post a bunch of these old journal entries I've discovered.

They prove two things. One: I've always been this awesome. And two: I've had life-long love affair with adjectives.