Just flipped through my Livejournal, which I haven’t written in for about a year. Oh my god, I used to write so much. Or rather, I used to babble incessantly about my life and it’s intricacies and how goddamn important every little event was.

Now, I can barely recall what made me so enraged or happy. I see names and can’t connect them to faces. I see the inner workings of past relationships and all I can think is “…damn, what the fuck was I thinking?!”. It’s greatly entertaining and pretty insightful.

I don’t write as much these days. I definitely don’t write about my insane emotional roller coaster rides anymore. Not privately or publicly. I almost feel like I’m depriving my future thirty-something year old self of the same insight and entertainment that I get to enjoy now. I guess my life now isn’t nearly so eventful or dramatic as it used to be, so it’s not like thirty-something year old Alice is going to be missing out on too much. 

That just seems like a sad statement. I’m a young twenty-something living in a pretty hoppin’ area of the country, shouldn’t I have plenty of stories to tell my future self?