Just for fun, or angsty torture—I can’t quite decide, I’ve been re-reading my journal entries from 1997. (To get it out of the way: Yes, I’ve been keeping a journal since I was a wee lad. And yes, even then I was as verbose as I am now.)
A few things strike me:
- I edited myself. A lot. Which I guess misses the whole point of a having a journal in the first place. But somehow, I got it in my 18-year old brain that I would become famous one day and that someone would make these journals public.
- Even then, I hated pretentious people. The summer before my freshman year of college, I worked at Rhode Island Hospital as a lab assistant for a doctor who was studying glomerulonephritis. It was one of the cooler jobs I’ve ever had: I sacrificed lab mice, harvested their organs, and blended them into goo so we could extract RNA. So all in all, it was a cool, exciting job for a teenager. But the doctor himself was just an ass. Seriously. Very much a know-it-all, pompous snob who treated people around him like dirt. Oh wait. I guess that prepared me for life in DC… (Ba-dum-BUM!)
- And finally… ten years later, I can’t for the life of me remember what the crappy days were all about.