Desperation

I'm desperate, ReaderFriends.

I'm desperate for a journal.

At every major turning point in my life, I've written.

As we were packing over the weekend, my sister found a journal of mine that I wrote when I was very young. It described her thusly:

"My sister is five years old. Her favorite food is ice cream! Her favorite sport is bubble chasing!"**1

Enthusiasm and observation was the name of the game.

Now I own a home. And enthusiasm and observation is the only thing that's happening.

I have quotes.

I have realizations.

I have important lists to make and trackings to track.

And I have nowhere to write them, because all of my writing implementation is packed away safely at the bottom of a pile of "less important items."**2

Which leaves me in a horrible pickle.

At what point is my rememberer going to run out of room to remember, and then these quotes and realizations and trackings will be lost for good?

Will it be before I send all my thank-you notes?

Will it be before I buy the shears to prune the plants that need pruning and trim away the plants that need to go?

Will it be before I get home for dinner tonight?

Sure, I could make one at work. I could create the pages I want and print them out, and then start filling them in.

I could go online to some bookstore or another and find a home owner's journal. But then I would be spending precious dollars that could better be used finding sweet new curtain rods for the living room.

What I really need to do is find the box with the writing stuff in it.

Right now.

I need a journal and a comfy pen, stat!

**1 Grammar and spelling have been corrected for the sanity of international readers.

**2 Less important than the kitchen and the laundry. Those get precedence over writing.