Again my thanks for the comments from my last journal!

This time I want to write about my bedroom. Yeah I know we all have one, but my bedroom used to be my Dad's, so to me it's my connection to him. I can text him, webcam and stuff with him, but he used to live in here! This room has a lot to do with me finding my gayness too.

My bedroom is in the lowest level of my Grandma's house next to the garage, and used to be a workshop. It's not anything like my friend's rooms with windows and closets and carpet. No window, white cement block walls, concrete floor. BORING. It's bigger than my friends rooms and I think cooler too.

I was given this room right after fifth grade, I think because my Grandma was sick of hearing me play the drums (used to be my Dad's) and guitar. I blasted the little amp I had once I figured out how to get distortion hehe!

The doors to this room were always locked and I wasn't ever allowed in here so coming in here and knowing it was now mine felt weird. Without a window it's kind of creepy down here but I can pound my drums and play loud down here without bothering Grandma.

My room was filled with boxes of my Dad's and my Uncles stuff, and anything I found was mine...and I found some awesome stuff! His bed was still there, an old couch, and a table that I use for my computer. There's a really old dresser that still had some of my Dad's clothes in it, and on the walls were some posters from my Dad's favorite bands. Now I like them too.

There were boxes of old clothes and my uncles stuff was too small for me but my Dad's fit me loosely, he was even fatter than me as a kid. He wore those really short shorts with the thin white striping that cheerleaders at my school wear at practice, and I had a box full of them. I found his gym class uniform too, and sometimes I wear that when I want to get close to him.

I didn't like where the bed was so I tried to move it but it weighs a ton, so I had to take the mattresses off to move it and it was still real heavy. The mattresses were on a bunch of thin boards, and when I pulled those off I could see into the empty drawers built into the base of the bed, and each drawer had a fake back with a hiding place about four inches deep.

Inside the one drawer was a brown paper bag filled with some things I might write about at some point, and in the other drawer was a composition book, the kind with the black and white spotted cover. I opened it and some pictures fell out, snapshots of my Dad and his friends.

I sat down on the couch and started reading it, did the math on the dates, and knew it was from when he was almost my age, in the first entry he was about six months older than I am now. Every word was printed in a neat style that's close to how I print (my writing is so bad I have to print EVERYTHING!). There were stick figure drawings in some of the entries, kind of like the Diary Of A Wimpy Kid books.

The more I read the more interesting it became, and dirtier too. There were things in there that were freaky to me, and some that were just funny.

And the more I read the more I realized just how much I'm like him.

I'll write more about his diary in my future entries here, but for now I wanted to just start talking about it.

Sam