During Winter break of my senior year in high school, I came home, turned on my digital camera and discovered that my dad had somehow managed to destroy all my pictures that I'd taken from my final winter with my friends in high school to take random and completely unnecessary photos of my house.
In truth, I don't think I've forgiven him for it since.
I'm huge on recording history; I have far too many journals and awful pictures of myself and friends to prove this. So losing even a short stretch of photos was devastating enough for me to cry over it. Yeah, I know, it's pretty silly.
But it is pretty awful, losing those photos and losing my photos of my trip to DC. It's like, losing a little piece of me; worse still, because it wasn't tangible, it wasn't physically real enough to leave an actual mark. I mean, this was my first trip ever on my own. It was the first trip ever that I paid for, planned out, and carried out on my terms without some overbearing parental figure hovering and dictating what I was "allowed" to do.
And now, it's like it never happened. I get that it totally did, heck, I have a cute-ass stuffed panda I've named Babboo to prove it and Bailey still has photos. Nevertheless, it still feels like I've lost a little piece of myself, a great memory of a fantastic time that I've determined that I'm going to document in as much detail as possible so that when I'm old and Alzheimer's has set in, there'll be something to prove it really did happen...
Written 4.16.11
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