Strange beginnings

So here I am. A Blogger.

For reasons best left to professionals in psychiatric fields I did not think it would come to this. True, as a child, I wrote fervently in a diary with the express purpose of someone finding it and having the gall, nay the impudence! to read it. But alas my hiding place under my bed was too mainstream for my family. I kept it in my school bag and surreptitiously dropped it into the middle of a gaggles of girls. Still no luck. Once I even left it on the coffee table and hid behind the couch and watched with anticipation for someone, anyone in my family to read it. I would then leap out and admonish them for their horrendous invation of my privacy. After they had read all 114 pages of course.

But still my battered little exercise book that held all my dreams and thoughts remained unopened by another's hand. I was devastated. How on earth could I be praised and coddled when no one knew of my inner angst and my supernatural ability to spell words that had yet to be discovered. So I finally accepted the awesome truth that nobody wanted to read my diary and in fact, when I asked my little sister to do so, were quite horrified at the thought.
"What use is a diary if no one reads it?' I pleaded with my sis.
She quietly, and somewhat nervously, explained to me that a diary was something one wrote for one's self. I was perplexed.
"I wrote it! It holds no surprises for me!" (At this young stage of my life I had recently discovered the exclamation mark and was determined to get as much use from it as possible, even in speech, as though there where a limited number allocated to planet earth).
"It's for you to look back on in the future. To know you yourself as you are now from the observation of your future self", subtly implied my sister.
After this sentence there was a small hiss and pop from a region deep within my brain. Just behind my left ear. The tangy smell of fried neurons drifted through the room.
"What!!" I said (noting my clever use of two exclamation marks with the small price of just one word.)

To cut a long, and altogether embarrassing, story to an overdue close, I never did catch on. Whatever lonely and sporadic brain cells that did perish that fateful day, they held the key to understanding the riddle of an unread diary. Some people just don't get clogs. I don't get diaries that I can't read. So here I am, many years later, and thanks to modern technology I can do what I always dreamed of. Write a diary for someone else to read.

Granted, once again I may be hiding behind my sofa waiting with baited breath for a "hit" (the interwebs equivalent of Mum stopping the vacuuming to thumb through an exercise book that looks like it once belonged to an Alsatian with an oral fixation), but I think I can handle the suspense.

Anyway, I could always call my sister and ask her to look.