A friend of mine gave me a beatiful hard cover journal about two years ago, just perfect for poetry and random thoughts and other such schtuff. The only problem is this: I haven’t written anything in it yet. Nothing. Two years. Why? Because it’s so dang pretty. My regular journals are just dollar store notebooks, perfect for scribbling crap in. But this one is so nice I feel like I should be writing something monumentous and earth shattering between it’s hallowed covers. I’m not sure what this reveals about me, but I’m pretty sure it’s a character flaw.