“You’re too young for a diary. You don’t have anything to write about.”

Mom gave me this response every time I asked if I could have a diary. She was right.

I’ve kept them all and for a solid year there’s nothing to read about except all the animals I wanted to take home when we would go to the pet store for parakeet food.

Eventually boys show up. They faded quickly. The most consistent entries were dedicated to dreams, evolving into dream diaries, and now this.

Everything here is a dream. Or reality. I don’t know the difference.

Happy Birthday. You’re old enough.

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