Completely in the Dark

Let’s make this crystal clear: I’m no fan of nostalgia.

It’s a terrible cheat—like inviting people to a dinner party where the only “food” they’re offered is the aroma.

You see, these weekly deep-dives into my journals (somewhat loosely following a timeline, which means we’re currently stuck in the mid-1980s) are less about “Hey-wasn’t-that-a-great-decade?” bullshit than a peek into what’s made me who I am over the years.

You know, what I’ve learned—or failed to learn.

So, in an entry written on Sunday, Aug. 18, 1985, two and a half months into a new proofreader job at a direct mail marketing corporation, I was already wondering if “putting in overtime at the office” was all that life had to offer me.

And I was only 25 years old.

That day I worked four hours, then took off in my Datsun GX coupe, bought some beers, and went…