You poor thing. You've heard far more about me than any person living has. You've been dropped on the floor, crammed into my bag, been made into more of a photo book than a writing space, been the victim of mad ink scribbles or sappy thoughts, and over all been terribly abused.
... I'm sorry.
To all 400 pages of you, please pardon my emotional rants.
I took you to the parkway this evening to paste pictures from the Conference inside of you; yes, more sticky tape on your paper. I wrote in you and said funny things, and smiled a little at the stories you have to tell my husband and girls.
I wish my mom had kept a journal; I'd love to read a little about her life at my age. You'll have quite a few things to say to mine, won't you?
Thank you for being the outlet of my thoughts, emotional breakdowns, and overall craziness - you've held up under a lot; I suppose that's why your binding is coming loose. ^_^ Ah, but you'll be okay; you still have to get through this year, and I already have another that will take your place.
And to my readers, here's what my journal would like to say to you:
If you don't, or if you're barely writing in it, sit down tonight and pick up a pen! You'll regret it when you can't remember anything about this year. It's important.
Write, people - WRITE!
P.S ... I sometimes wonder if Jesus ever kept a journal. >.< Probably not, but the thought is funny. ^_^