Journal Diving

I recently re-uncovered my first 40 journal entries, which considering the shelf lives of floppy disks, I was amazed were completely uncorrupted after over five years and several moves. Something that I said within those roughly 36 pages of text was that:

"When you get right down to it, even with everything that goes on, even with all the words that I end up putting on that once-blank page, nothing truly changes."

Thank Gord I am wrong sometimes. Let's see, things that have changed...

I used to write in one of two ways: One way was incredibly sophisticated to the point of being doctrinal and absolutely did not look like the work of a teenager. I understand more now why my past teachers accused my parents of doing my homework for me. The other way was the way I conversed with the Chineses from the Northlands, using a great deal of crappy slang, profanity, and referring to the ladies as "chicks." In this crapastrophic (why did I ever stop using that word?) style, I did manage to embody the entire overmind of the internet and blogging with one question:

"Where's the motha fuckin' action at?"

Back then I would've been happy to tell you that I led a busy and very dramatic life. Mentally, I suppose that may have been true. My teen years, despite Neon and I constantly mocking them with the catch phrase, "TEEN ANGST, POWER UP!" were in fact very angsty. It was my classical age where I wrote doctrines, studied politics and religions and languages, listened to the mind music et al.

It was also the worst fucking five years of my life from which I'm slowly recovering. The action might be more physical now with my moving about from place to place, trying to work when I can and get edumacated, but it's still something. It's an evolution. One which my loyal readers probably find boring and uninspiring, and one for which my treacherous readers stopped bothering to visit long ago on account of my life being boring and uninspiring for such a long while now.

I'm now a much more pleasant person than I once was, although you'd never know it because I'm also now much more vocal in my discontent and my flippancy regarding being a douchebag to people than I ever would've dreamed I'd become. Unfortunately what hasn't changed is that the majority of my assholery is still untapped due to my bad habit of thinking of precisely what I'd wanted to say just as soon as the person I wanted to say it to is no longer present.

What also haven't changed are my ambitions for an exodus north. Unfortunately, since I'm unable to go on a scholarly pass, I'll have to do it the hard way. This involves working at a real job for no less than one year, and so my plans are pushed further back yet again. I'm estimating that it will take me around three or three and a half years at the least to be completely ready to hit the dusty (or snowy) trail.

This does, of course, put me in Canadia while I'm still young enough to find a single, rich old woman on her death bed and enjoy all the inheritance. It also puts me in America long enough to get married and get you a green card if you want, Trappie. Nothing like showing my remnant angst for Old Glory in a legal, if not hilarious, way.

In my teen years I was still doing the "Who am I?" ordeal, and I don't just mean watching the same-titled Jackie Chan movie that had the hottest of all his costars up to present. Now that I know damn well who I am and that there's only so much I can do about it, I figure I've got until at least 30 to tackle the latter part of the statement of "This is who I am, and this is what I'm going to do as a result." I can't honestly say I'm in any hurry.