He figured it was as good a time as any to start writing his memoir. So, he sat down and began to write. He cracked open the leathery journal that had been sitting at the bottom of a finished desk drawer, and was hit with the smell of blank paper, ink, and being fourteen. A journal that hadn’t been touched in years, was now what mattered most to him in this world. And in this moment, he felt he needed to make his life count, in words, on paper, with ink and indecipherable scribbles that to him held the stories of beautiful women, shitty bosses, and braces. To not let it sit any longer in the depths of a finished desk drawer. To scream. To yell. To be heard. To tell its story, however horrifying, unsympathetic, beautiful it was.