When I don't write, guilt is what I feel. It's an odd thing really. I wouldn't call myself a "writer," as I don't do it often enough to earn such a title. I don't keep a journal because I simply don't have time and what fun is that when yours truly is the only reader? In high school I wrote essays that blew the socks off my English teachers, my mastery of the English language far exceeded that of the majority of my peers, and often I took great pleasure in tearing apart (editing) the pages of other's work.
Here and now, I've created this blog, for which I've great plans, but haven't made a single entry since the first because of a silly little battle playing out in my mind as to what and how much I should share. I've got dated drafts of entries, but deemed them "TMI" and moved on. What is blog etiquette anyhow? Should I change names? And then there's this issue of offending my readers, an audience I haven't yet decided; will it consist of those who are complete strangers or should I bite the bullet and link up to the dangerous world of Facebook? I deviously wish to air things that are better left unknown in the minds of my friends and family, and so the decision has been made...
If you are reading this, then likely you are not someone I know.
Consider yourself warned. Moving forward, the entries that can be found here may contain raw emotion, explicit details, illegal actions and on occasion distasteful vulgarity. All accounts are based on the experience of the writer, as I haven't the mind or the time to make shit up.
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