When I was 15 years old, I found myself in alot of trouble with some older boys. (Aint that always the way?) Long story as short as possible, my parents involved law enforcement and the shit hit the fan. My diary (my downfall, everyone's downfall I suppose) was confiscated by the officers, though I trusted it would be in safe keeping. I discovered a short time later that photocopied diary pages of the most personal kind made their way into one of the older boy's dirty little hands and he was passing them around his workplace for the entertainment of his peers.


Now at 28 years old, I can pinpoint this moment as the day my trust issues ignited. I never again kept a diary, in fact I destroyed another, less interesting, diary I also kept. Though I have had times in my life when I wished to journal or blog, and though I have no more dirty secrets lying in wait, personal writings of this kind have always been a sort of four-letter-word to me. 

Making this step towards a permanent and active blog is a part of facing my fears. Sort of like sky-diving for acrophobians. I suppose I could have purchased one of those little books with hearts on the front and a little pink lock, but at my age and in this culture, blogging just seems more interesting.