I bought an empty journal from the bookstore a few days ago.  160 lined pages. It will take me exactly 5 months and 10 days to fill it up if I write one page a day. I hate writing, not the creative process but the actual mechanical process of moving pencil or pen across a page.  On the rare occasions I do write my hand writing never looks the same twice and the longer I write the more my hand shakes which makes it even worse.  When I was in second grade the therapist tried to teach me to write cursive script but gave up on that idea relatively quickly. My Dad has attempted over the years to get me to put more effort into keeping my handwriting up.  Much to his dismay I did not put nearly the amount of time he would’ve liked into it.  I didn’t see the point of trying when 90% of people would not be able to read it and the only thing that would accomplish is to frustrate and annoy me. But now I have a blank journal.  Why?  It all started with the damn bet.  Last Christmas my friend told me he thought he could read my hand writing so I promised a letter.  Well, partly because I  got legitimately sidetracked and partially because I was trying to avoid embarrassment he didn’t get it until a few months ago.  Not only could he read it he had memorized it in short order.  I was and still am shocked.  He can still tell me exactly where the letter is because he kept it.  That should explain the journal.  Nobody, my folks included to the best of my knowledge, has kept any physical traces of my maladroit attempts at penmanship.  When I sent him that letter you would’ve thought I had sent him something truly priceless for as much fuss as he made over the fact that I had actually sent it.  Yes it will hurt,but the hand cramps and the swearing will be well worth seeing the smile on his face, even if I only see it in my head.  I guarantee it’s there whether I see it or not.

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