I used to love to record things. By hand, of course, because I’ve always been a writer. I started keeping a journal when I was about 21, carefully covering all of the details. The people that were there, the places I went, the feelings that I had. My endeavor continued post-graduation, through the L.A. years, back home, in Atlanta, back home, back to Atlanta….everything neatly recorded in chronological order. I always viewed it as my life’s work, my life’s project and thought “Wow, when I’m old and can’t remember anything, I can pick a journal and read up on what I was doing at 22, 29, 34 etc etc” I thought of it as the ultimate gift to myself. My reward for having the discipline to stay with it. Maybe I would even publish. Pick out the gems and publish a retrospective of my life, filled with travel, rock and roll, celebrity interactions, amazing experiences. I always thought 60 would be a good age to do it. And a big part of me thought that it would actually be an interesting read. That was the Grand Plan. And then…and then, my journals got stolen. Yes, I know, quite random and weird. I’ve touched lightly on The Theft before in my blog, but I don’t do so often. Seven and a half years seems like a long time but the hurt remains and I’ll never forget that night, feeling so nauseous yet letting go so fast because I knew they were gone forever. Gone forever so just pick yourself and keep going. Always keeps going.