Done Dirt Cheap

Yesterday I wrote in my journal again.

I only bring it up because it's kind of a big deal.

Sometime last June I bought myself a 9.5x6 inch notebook. Just a regular notebook from the drug store, nothing fancy. I picked blue because it reminds me of the ocean. I vowed to carry it around with me every day and write down all of the things I overheard or thought of or was told or read and thought were funny or awesome or deep or ridiculous. My first several entries include the following lines:

"I'm so hungry I'm afraid my stomach is going to climb out my mouth and start digesting peoples shoes."

"For the first two years I lived in New York, I felt like my friends and my family were in Los Angeles, living my life without me. And I was trapped in the city with no life at all."

Us: She looks like a

(Together)

A: midget.

T: someone who's had a few kids.

A: We're going to hell in a big yellow school bus. You're driving, I'm holding the map.

And my personal favorite:

"Is my eye twitching? Because that's how I feel about that."

I loved my little journal. I carried it every day and I wrote in it constantly. I often started blogs in the journal, finishing them online. I knew the little notes I made would be used at some later date, little treasures tucked away for safe keeping, the way a quilter might stash bits of pretty cloth for a quilt she hasn't thought of making yet. Then, about four weeks into my journal-keeping, I wrote in it for work.

You're probably thinking, So? So what? You wrote in it for work, no big deal.

But it is a big deal. Because then it became a "work" notebook and I started using it exclusively for work. I could no longer separate my personal thoughts from my work thoughts and so I had to dump it. I replaced it with my sales book, something I absolutely cannot be without and am able to take notes in.

Yesterday I took it back. I took my journal back and I wrote it in and I wrote dirty things that would make your eyes pop out. I wrote about dogs who vomit and dogs who eat vomit. I wrote about taking photographs of dead animals I find on the street. I even wrote about ... MY PERIOD. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

And it felt. So. Good.