It never began?

I'm not even sure what the impetus was for this entry. I think I've come to realize the consequences of my negligence. I've written on construction paper, books, journals, sidewalks, diaries, napkins since I was 8 years old. I have kept every diary and every journal since then but have failed to keep up the last 4 years. This doesn't sit well with me AT ALL. I just spent the last 2 years of my life 2,000 miles away from home--with it came the life-changing experiences, you know, the highs, the lows, the unpredictability of life. The last year ITSELF was pretty damn epic and is one for the books. I've got to make a change, but more importantly a commitment this time. I'm not going to hold myself accountable for an entry a day, like I used to, but rather once a week. Now that graduation is in sight I don't have an excuses. I think I've forgotten how therapeutic writing is, reflecting. Writing is a creative process with therapeutic benefits. As a little girl I used to read all the time, my mom would take me to the local thrift shop and I'd buy books and books. You'd catch me laying in my twin-sized bed, sprawled like a starfish over my Care Bears bedsheets. Next to my pile of books, my diary. Where has that little girl gone?

So it doesn't begin.

It's been nearly a year and a half since I last looked at this thing. I suppose there was once a purpose for creating it, but now & almost two years later I've FORGOTTEN what that purpose was. The first post was dated last June--the same time I was in Baltimore conducting research. I'm thinking I may have created a blog to keep my friends and family intuned with my progress? NO SAY.
Now, if that were trully the case, I should have thought about creating one NOW! Afterall, I am spending the next two years of my life 2,000 miles away.. in Chicago! I don't understand myself sometimes, but who really does anyway? right?

I'm wondering if this stupid little entery will give way to a whole bunch of other, new stupid little entries. So, DOES IT begin? hmm..

So it begins.

The last time I was adamant about one of these things was around the same time that I was fanatically obsessed with Delias catalogs and MTV Real World/Road Rules shows. It seems as though you never grow out of the things you love. You age, and foolishly, you realize that name-brand tags are not indicative to securing a date, nor is the opportunity of having your life taped with seven, phony strangers going to make you any more popular. You age and your passions in life are steady; the hunger and obsession remains the same.
I've out grown the Cosmopolitan phase ages ago, but have never out grown my fervish desire and LOVE for writing. Hand me a pen and paper and I stand impervious.