Going through old notebooks makes me feel like I have memory loss, or maybe split personality.

I’m going through my closets in preparation for a garage sale I’m hoping to have, and part of that is going through my significant collection of spiral bound notebooks. I’ll buy one or be gifted one and I’ll use maybe four pages, and then into the milk crate it goes. Some were supposed to be diaries, some hold the first chapter of a novel never to be finished, some hold notes for sermons because I’m totally going to start doing that. But it’s rarely full enough to where I can’t rip those pages out and have a pretty much complete notebook, so I’ve been sitting there with a recycling bin next to me doing just that in the hopes of lightening the load. And that’s when I ran across this.

What was I talking about? What am I referencing? I don’t own any guns, nor do I want to. Why is it in stereotypical crazy person scrawl?

And it gets worse as I get closer to the bottom and further back in time. I don’t remember any of these, so we’ll chalk it up to clone Cyra.

By the handwriting and humor it looks like I wrote this when I was 8, but I pulled this out of my high school folder.

I think this is the best picture of me that’s ever been drawn.

Just me hanging out with Batman. You know. As you do.

I think throwing these notebooks away will be good for me. I can go back to convincing myself I was a cool teenager who was totally well adjusted and repressing the memories of how dorky I actually was.

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