[Macki-gnawed.]

I am currently "enduring" the single greatest gig ever conjured up: puppy-sitting Mackinaw (Mack, for short).

He and I started out testing the waters a bit-- and I've got the teethmarks to prove it-- but bonded over a walk around town and have spent these early hours of our afternoon dozing... what a brilliant thing to get paid for. He's still at it, belly-up next to the recliner, but I needed a distraction.

I've found solace in a bookshelf lined with Baby-Sitter's Club books.

(Right above the collection of Hanson, Backstreet Boys, and Mariah Carey CD's.)

I'm curled up with #99 at this very moment.

Turns out these books are much more informative than I remember. Maybe I'm just not to the juicy parts yet, but thus far, the 28 pages I've read have been merely adequate. I don't want to know the in's and out's of creating a

club or a Kid-Kit. I hate babysitting. (Ironic.) Nonetheless, I want middle school drama, middle-class adventure... I want to drown in the pathetic flailings of tweens' so-called relationships, damn it!

Maybe I should just skip a few chapters...?!

Better yet, I think I'll head back to the bookshelf and try to find a copy of The Boxcar Children. They were always so badass...

[In uterine.]

[Sigh.]

And so it begins.

I wish I could say I had a grand opening planned for the birthing of this endeavor. Something along the lines of eFireworks, an online auction of my valuables, even the imagined crash of a Clip Art gong would suffice nicely. Unfortunately, fireworks make me blink without fail, which completely negates the purpose of the event, "my valuables" becomes an oxymoron when related to yours truly, and, quite frankly, I just can't seem to find the right combination of letters to put the gong idea onto this pseudo paper.

So I'll stick with a little bit of my truth:

I'm intimidated.

Intimidated by the emptiness before me.

Intimidated by the potential.

Intimidated by the risk involved in someone actually stumbling upon my innards, outpouring.

*ahem*

Intimidated by the risk involved in someone actually stumbling upon the outpouring of my innermost ramblings.

(I pledge to make wiser choices with my words in the future. (Gross.))

Though there will be plenty of embarrassing material embedded within this blog by the time I get my grubby mitts all over it, I find hope in the idea of throwing myself out there. The closed-mouthed company that I tend to find myself being, or being immersed in, is tirelessly guarded. Everyone is playing by the rules. No one is saying what they feel. Self-preservation is my main goal, your main goal...

It's endless; Bullshit as far as the eye can see.

But there's hope here in the potential for honesty, the anonymity, the distance I feel from the fallout.

It's a safer soapbox than ever before, and though I realize I may essentially be sending my thoughts out into an abyss, never to be heard or seen again, or, perhaps even more likely, I may find I am passionately ranting to myself alone. In any case, at least I'm letting myself be known better.

And that's a step.