Eight years is an impossibly long time for someone who hasn't spent more than three years in the same city since she was twelve.
This diary is eight years old.
This is the most consistent part of my life. I've never done anything as long as I've done this. I don't think I've lived in any house as long as I've lived here.
I've lost many a friend over it. I've made many a friend over it.
I still refuse to reread certain portions (like that time I was a stalker? Or when Aaron cheated on me? Or when I cheated on Aaron?), but they're there, some version of everything that's happened to me in the past eight years, for when I'm ready to remind myself how I'm exactly the same person, just with better hair.