Resolving to do better with the whole journaling thing, I decided I would get out the journal I’ve kept on the computer for the past six years. I am going to print it out and put it all in one place and think about how happy and inspired it will make my posterity.

EXCEPT. I’ve been reading through it. Man oh man oh man. Is it wrong of me to cut out entire paragraphs, entire entries, entire summers?

The very first line:

I sit in a dorm room at Fordham University.

I sit? Was I having some existential moment? Captured only by the simple present tense? I cringe to read parts of my journals.  I fall over and clutch at my stomach. My finger reaches for the delete key.

There are parts of it I am glad are in there, as there are things I don’t want to forget about my life.

I am living with a girl named Sally who is from Missouri. She is a liberal atheist who likes to walk around completely naked.

More often, however, there are parts that offer uncontestable proof that I was not cool or level-headed or smart or any of the things I spend so much daily effort trying to prove to the people with whom I interact.

I also spent some time with Joe Schmoe. I have a crush on him and it was good to feel it out. I think he feels the same way for me but both of know it would never work because we both have enough hang-ups neither of us could actually pull it off. But there was definitely some tension. Not while we were actually together but maybe in the afterward moments. Oh Joe.

It’s not just that I don’t want anybody to read about my flaws. It’s that I don’t want them to know how utterly ridiculous I am. I feel like I’ve tried to save that part of myself for Levi. Only Levi will ever know the true extent.  Levi and anyone who reads the unedited version of my journal.

I think I could be a good wife.  I think I can be supportive and deferent. So again, I sat in relief society and cried because I wanted to marry David O. McKay and he’s dead.

So I was about to start deleting things when I started to feel guilty because am I altering history?

Don’t know how much I like Jimmy, but I was glad we kissed because I decided that I had to kiss someone by Valentine’s day, and I’m always glad when I can continue to have faith in my set a date program. Maybe I should try using it for missionary work a little more often.

There are things that happened in this world only recorded by me and isn’t that reason enough to let them stand?

The crazy thing is, I think I am in love with Johnny. I hope I’m not wrong. I’d feel like such an idiot.

I swear that in a four month span I said “I think I am in love” three times about three different boys and I meant it every time. Also, I was not in high school. I was in graduate school.

Okay so I’m in love. I know I just said that about someone else, but it feels different this time. It’s just that I love the way Jerry treats me.

My problem is my audience. Why am I so aware of my audience as I write in a private journal?  It’s these cursed delusions of grandeur–the same ones that find me worrying about where I’m going to find a modest dress for the Oscars. Someday my biographers are going to be glad I left such a detailed record.

Somewhere, in the tussy in my brain about whether or not it’s ethical to alter my record (at one point in the inner debate, I even quoted Orwell) and all of my back reading, an even bigger problem presented: it’s a moot point, isn’t it?

I suppose I should stop trying to write like I am a writer and start getting the facts down so that my posterity has something to remember this week by. No one will ever care about this week, will they?