I run out the door to my car, grabbing only my keys and journal, and peel out of my driveway. Who am I kidding, I think. With all the traffic on the bridge, I'll just have to accept I'm doomed to be late. I settle back in my seat, after all I'll be stuck here for two hours, and try to think of something to occupy my thoughts.

I threw my notebook on the seat. I wonder why even when I'm late, I still remember it. Its marbleized cover, in psychedelic colors don't really go together, maybe that's why I bought it, for its uniqueness. Actually I bought it a year earlier from the Card Gallery, because I worked there; I got a 30% discount. A pen sits inside the cover. I remember when my friend and I bought the same pen. As time went on we also bought the matching folders and notebooks to match; back in junior high we thought we were so cool. Because of my obsession with writing, I still spend much of my time in stationery stores.

My journal's smaller than my other notebooks, and it's certainly not as jazzy. There are no pockets or sections; only the hard cover and the perforated pages. But on Friday nights I can take it in to the diner with me, or on Saturdays to a friend's house. If I have to remember something important I can jot it down. There are shopping lists mixed among poetry. "Gum, a warm breezy day, lotion, leaves fall slowly to the ground." The remains of ripped pages remind me of notes left on my friends' cars.

Sometimes if I'm struck with an idea while I'm driving, I can pull over scribble it down. There are no finished stories in this notebook, only the gist of what happens, often just an outburst of emotions. If I write when I'm home I sit down at the computer, or at my three-ring binder. Still it's this notebook I like best because it seems more a part of me.

As I pull onto campus I stop thinking about my journal. Now I have to move my thoughts to subjects like calculus, psychology, and nineteenth century literature. I clutch my notebook close; it comforts me. -