Cleaning my closet this weekend, I came across my very first journal.  I was eleven years old and I made it myself with copy paper, a hole punch, and some yarn.  Here’s a sample entry of A Day in the Life:

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Pretty spicy stuff.  I spent five lovely minutes on Saturday reading this and remembering why childhood was grand.  For all the angst of tweendom, an overarching simplicity still reigned during those years.  When one’s deepest thoughts can be followed with a rainbow-cloud picture, a heart, and a monkey-man (?), not to mention an impressive autograph, you know that Life Was Good.  And yes, these drawings were the standard signature for every single one of my journal entries in this collection.  Not only were my thoughts deep, my art was consistent.  (And no, I was not “getting good” at swimming, I was trying to pass Level 3 at the public pool.  And no, I do not believe I only watched TV on Saturdays.  And yes, my mom used to let me and my friends ride the public bus by ourselves, all over town.  The ’80s ruled.)

 I was a happy kid and it was a happy time, and I say