Joel and I are finally saying goodbye to one-bedroom apartment life and are making our way on up into the world of houses and having room to breathe. In anticipation of our upcoming move, I have been going through all of my stuff and throwing out as much of it as possible in an attempt to curb the hoarder habits that I seem partial to. I have managed to keep the most random things over the years (post-it-notes, beer mats, weird little knick-knacks that I completely forgot about as soon as I shoved them into a drawer somewhere), and amongst this junk that I was certain was important when I stowed it away because ‘it holds memories’, I found my old diaries. While I never managed more than ten entries, I did start a new one every year from the age of eleven onwards, so it was interesting to see how I grew and changed up until my last diary at age fifteen. Of course by interesting I mean horrifying. I was not a very nice person at all, spending most of my time complaining a...