It’s funny how now, in retrospect, I think was that really me? I read through diary entries penned in pink marker and marvel at my own ignorance. I flatten the corners of Polaroid pictures and am unable to recognize my face in those snippets of paper. I hear, again and again, childhood anecdotes my mother has kept for me and cannot be like the girl she remembers – the one who crawled under restaurant tables, told jokes people actually found funny, sang in karaoke bars. Who the hell is she? It unsettles me that maybe, in three, ten years, I will also consider the person I am now to be completely indistinguishable. If I cannot remember myself as I truly am, then who will?