GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #57: DAYS GONE BY

I remember when I was in high school and college, I kept a journal. I wrote in it every night, even if I had nothing to report. It was a part of my ritual. Then, I started acquiring a social life, and there were nights when I didn't write in my journal, either because I was too drunk or because I was getting laid or because I simply wasn't home from a night of partying yet to do so.


Still, whenever I was home and conscious and had the time, I'd write in my journal.


I just realized that it's been almost a month since I wrote in it. In fact, it's starting to look like one entry a month is the pace. What happened?


Two things, I suppose. I stopped writing about what I was reading in there because I joined Goodreads and have been posting everything there instead. Also, I started doing Goodnight, Fuckers, and that took a lot of steam out of my composition notebook journal.


Tonight, I wrote in my journal just to write in it. I had nothing of value to say, but still, it was kind of weird. My handwriting has gotten worse as I get older. It used to be orderly and readable. Now it's like a madman started scribbling on paper just to get the squiggly lines out of his head.


I wonder if I'm going to just quit the ol' journal and continue on with this. Or maybe I'll quit this and go back to the old way. I don't know. I've got too many other things to think about, like finishing up my new novel. I think I'll be done with the first draft this weekend.