square one

so i'm doing this for myself. at least i think i am. i've always been skeptical of people who blog for wearing their real hearts on their overly-connected internet sleeves or for seeming way too desperate to be heard. and i really can't even stand the word "blog". all i know is that i like to write. it helps me organize the chaos in my head. and that's a feat that a good shrink and a plush couch might not even be able to handle.

when i moved to new york a year ago, i began writing my thoughts on paper for the first time in a long time (thanks to mom's discovery of my uncensored writing in high school). the last time i saw my grandfather before i moved, he asked me to do one thing for him: write. he said that he wished he had written more in his lifetime, especially when he was fighting in world war II. so now i write in a little black book. i like it. i like the feel of ink on paper and the requisite pauses in between. minus a handful of cheeky mass emails i sent out earlier in the year, i haven't fully exposed myself in writing. ever. it makes me feel vulnerable, just like the time my towel fell down in the back outside of my cabin at summer camp when i was a kid - not fully exposed, but enough to make your heart race.

life is interesting. the city is engaging. so here goes nothing.