I started writing in a journal when I was 8 years old. On the pastel pages of that turquoise diary with ice cream cones, rainbows and balloons on the cover, I wrote about vitally important issues such as my dog, sleepovers and New Kids on the Block.
As I grew older, the journals grew, too. They grew thicker and the content on those college-lined pages matured. I still wrote about my dog, but I also wrote about Leonardo Dicaprio, underage shenanigans, loss of loved ones, heartache and boys. Oh, how I wrote about boys. Like most teenage girls, I'd been "in love" a hundred times. If a cute guy smiled at me in the hallway or offered me a Starburst in study hall, he was suddenly "the love of my life". His name would appear in my thick 5-Star notebook, surrounded by hearts, but it would be replaced a few days later when another boy grinned at me in gym.
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