Self Challenge: Blog Post in 10 Minutes, including editing.

So, have any of you ever had an object in your house you just associate with negativity? Maybe it’s a gift from the mother in law you hate, or the picture your roommate has of your ex-boyfriend because they’re still friends with them. Maybe it’s a memento of a past you don’t want to remember.

I killed one of those today. Man, does it feel good.

Okay, so, I was finishing up building a shelving unit for DVDs, organizing DVDs, and generally trying to organize shit. I came across an old journal from high school. A journal in which I was dating “the fag” as he has been so named by my friends, due to the fact that, well, he has to be gay. How do I know this, you ask? He refused a blow job. Twice. Apparently, the rule is that you’re gay if you do that.

Hey, I didn’t make the rule, don’t look at me. My friends looked it up in their copies of the man handbook.

In any case, I found this journal. This journal makes me generally pissed every time I see it. I didn’t like who I was then– the fucker really didn’t like that my cock was bigger than his in almost every aspect, save in the fact he actually had one. I maintain I’m more a man than he shall ever be– I can fix my own shit and take responsibilities for my actions without whining to my mom, AND I can keep a job. Fuck him in the face.

So, while I was unwisely head-bobbing to Ke$ha and rotting my brain (goddamn you, Lora) I stared at that journal.

I also stared at the tool kit that held an X-acto knife.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if those two things met?

So, I picked up the journal and hacked and slashed my way through it. I had promised myself a long time ago I wouldn’t destroy records of my writing, no matter how shitty, but I don’t fucking care. I hate that fucking journal, I hate who I was when I was with him, I love who I am now, even if I do have more broken circuits than a R.O.B that was found at a garage sale for twenty-five cents. Fuck him, fuck the past, and fuck the promise I made in the past. I didn’t want that trash in my goddamned house, not with my new life and my new girlfriend. Fuck that past self. Fuck her in the face.

I wanted to burn the pages, but I can’t do that in my apartment due to fire code. I also don’t have a fire proof bucket. So, I took it to the sink and soaked that wad of papers to a mess of smeared writing, balled it up and threw it in the bathroom trash. I then took the bathroom trash and hurled it into the dumpster outside of my apartment.

That was about ten minutes ago now. I still want to throw my head back and cackle. It feels great to finally not have that in the apartment, and to not have any more ties to that jackoff what so ever.

I’m not sure what I’m going to use the rest of the journal for. There were an awful lot of blank pages. I might do something with it, I might trash the whole thing. I don’t really know. I may fill it with lesbian erotica, which would be hilariously fitting. Or gay erotica. Either, really.

All I know is I feel a lot lighter, and now it doesn’t piss me off to see that journal. Not as much. Almost not at all. The only thing that’s upsetting me now is wondering why the hell I didn’t do that sooner.

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