I am finally eating and my entire body shudders with each bite. I am gobbling my frozen pizza topped with perfectly circular pepperonis. My stomach is bloating with each greasy bite. As I munch, I study the guts of the white journal-filled box. A notebook with a grinning skeleton head intrigues me. I recall buying it when I was in a bleak mood. Maybe the giddy teen girl died and a brooding rock boy was born. I am trying to connect where I was emotionally then, when I wrote these journals, and how I got to this place now. I don’t recall such a radical shift in my emotional life. I have, of course, always been moody.
I rip open the grinning skull notebook and am greeted with the handwriting of a mad man. Huge, frantic letters written in the smeary black ink of a half destroyed leaking pen.
