So, I have this problem.

I'm terrible at keeping a journal. I always start off writing in one every day and then eventually I become preoccupied.

Today, Sept. 28, 2009, I've decided I need more consistency in my life. If it starts here, well then that's just the way it has to be.

Let's pretend I'm not real. Like I'm that little space in our brain's that can't decided between reality and imagination. That's where I can go if you please.

Let's act like I'm making these up, because, well no one likes to admit things so why should I be any different? But I supposed I've always been different, so there's no point in contradicting myself like I already have through out this whole entry.

Robyn. That's the name I was born with, for sixteen years I hated the name, yet within the last six months I haven't been able to grow fond of any other name. So I stuck with that one, minus the adjustment to the spelling. I can't explain why I like it with the y I just do.

The main reason I processed this thought is because I was sitting there helping with my sister(Yes, I have a sister and more siblings), organize her room when I realized that I threw out all of the journals from my childhood. In one idiotic rebellious pointless moment I threw out every private thought I had had in my childhood. I will regret that for the rest of my life.

So, I suppose this is the first journal entry to the rest of my life.

Aren't you lucky?
That was a rhetorical question.