3, 2, 1...

I am going to start a blawwg. This is so not me. If blogging were, say a house, I would be the person driving at 15 mph down the road, gawking at the lovely trim and clucking disapprovingly at the greenish gutters while the drivers behind me were getting royally pissed off at me and yelling at me to get the hell out of my car already. I don't know where I was going with that metaphor. The point being, I love to read blogs, just not actually do one myself.

It's not that I don't have any interesting stories to tell. I have a friend, let's call her Doubtful Friend, who swears that I make up all my 'listen to what just happened to me!' stories, because they just can't be real. I have never made one of them up. Although I probably should, just to see what passes her reality litmus test.

The reason I don't blog is the same reason I don't keep a journal or a diary or actually talk to real, live human beings so much. I'm a very private person. I remember receiving a diary as a kid. One of those pink jobbies with a 'real lock' and tiny key and little ballet dancers on the front. I tried for one whole day to be truthful and record my very innermost thoughts that just no one but me would appreciate. I ripped out the pages the next day, soaked them in water to make the ink run, and tore them into itty, bitty pieces. And then set them on fire. (okay, not really the fire part. I'm practicing for the next time I see Doubtful Friend.)

For the next year I lied in my diary. I lied about who my best friend really was. About what color I liked. About my favorite foods. About what star I was going to run away with. (I said Shaun Cassidy, but it was really David Lee Roth) I couldn't bear the thought of anybody sneaking a peek at my writing. Not even myself. I remember making a time capsule in middle school of things that were important to me and that I could see myself doing in the future. (all lies, but surely I'd remember what I really meant) I forgot about it and found it when I was a senior in high school. Pleasant trip down memory lane? Total mortification. I promptly ripped it up and set it on fire. (That one is true.)

Why now? Quite simply I'm in a 'Why the hell not' kind of mood. Game on.