So I'm trying to figure out the purpose of this whole blog thing. I've never been good at keeping diaries, though I sure tried. My sister, Brianne, and I shared a room growing up and she would spend a half hour before bed each night, scribbling ravenously in her diary while I laid back reading the latest Calvin and Hobbes. I always envied her dedication. Yet, everytime I tried to do the same, I'd look back on the week to find nothing but mundane lists of what I had eaten, the things I had done, and reasons why on one particular day, I was certain of the pure hatred my siblings held for me. I began acquiring stacks of barely used diaries; the blue one with the basset hound sporting a party hat on the front cover, the one with the leprachaun holding a spyglass, the plain white one that I bookmarked with a self-breast examination instructions card...These were all books my grandma had picked up at the 99 cent store and doled out over the course of birthdays and christmases and st. patrick's days. I just never found my life exciting enough to write about. Brianne, on the other hand, had boys lining up, desiring a brush of her hand or an awkward hello at youth group Wednesday nights. I know this because I read her diary. I still remember the gold lock and the code, which involved the Hallmark crown symbol. 7, 2, 4, crown, 5. These were also the days of reading Anne Frank's diary in school, which as we all know, as far as diaries go, rocks. I quickly realized that if my diary was going to make any impact, be an exciting page turner for anyone, say hundreds of years from now or tomorrow, I would have to make crap up. It began with made up crushes and fist fights with neighborhood kids, but with each entry, the tales became less and less realistic. I travelled to Russia and Brazil to nurse sick babies and play professional basketball before having a sordid affair with a Tahitian male prostitute in the Galapagos Islands. My fake life was spinning out of control. I was pregnant with said male prostitute's baby and struggled with the idea of abortion before becoming addicted to marijuana and losing the baby in childbirth. This was all before the age of 13. So, I don't think this will be used as a diary persay, but more of an outlet to share the characters and stories inside me: my schizophrenic self, whether true or make-believe, here I am...walking into blacklight.