November 1, 2017:

There's context for this lack of precision.

My journals are preoccupied with the dramas that were soon to engender a painful breakup. Very painful.

She was lovely, brilliant, confused about her identity, baffled to learn that men considered her exceptionally beautiful. She was frequently drunk; determined to party with the cool kids; frustrated with my very slow reading and my nocturnal dedication to completing assignments. She thought I wasn't fun, which, by definition, means that for her I wasn't. It required a significant trauma for her to realize what was uniquely important about me, and by then it was of course all kinds of way too late.

So that I wrote only marginal notes re where we were, what we were learning, how we were experiencing the experience. Crowded by page after confused and tormented page re my confusion and torment.