This is a blog. This is not a diary.

Dear Blog,

I'm so glad I have you. You force me to write something five times a week. And that's so good for me. Because no matter how tired, irritated or drunk I get, I must take at least ten (or five) minutes and type out what must be shared.

So thank you, Blog.

I feel like I can tell you anything.

Well, almost anything.

Okay, not everything. You're Google searchable (right?) and I have no idea who all is reading you. So I can't really type about work cause that could end my job. And I can't really talk about stupid crap my friends have done, cause they might see it and know that I think they're stupid. And I can't type about all of the prostituting I've done, because Lord Allmighty, if my dad saw this! Whew-wee! How embarassing would it be for him to know about that one time I snuck all of that black tar H across the border in my butt!*

But I can type make believe stories into you, Blog. And that's great. I haven't been able to think of any make believe lately. Perhaps the muse will sing in me tomorrow and I'll tell the tale of Pinnoccio's half sister. Or the two-holed bowling ball. Or maybe I can come up with something about a catepillar who was raised by snakes.

Heck, that last one writes itself. I might have to go ponder that one for a bit.

Until tomorrow, Blog!

-Q of A



*Just kidding. That story is false. It was really tabs of X!