I finally bought a journal yesterday. Yeah, one of those paper thingies. Actually, I bought two, as I am well aware that I will need to experiment for a while with this new medium to find one that fits me and my needs.

So I chose the larger volume as I chased the sun from Austin to Los Angeles yesterday afternoon and began to write. Man, like I said, it will take a while to get used to this. Despite the obvious purpose of what you're reading here, I'm not really used to writing about myself. Here, when I get all mixed up and don't know what to say, I just post links or make jokes or talk about other people. That way, I'm still communicating, but I don't have to say anything close to my heart. But I want this journal to be close to my heart. Yet as I stared at the blank pages yesterday, despite all the crap that's been building up inside of me, looking for an outlet, I couldn't think of a thing to say. What did finally appear was insufficient, but a start. There's no one here to amuse and no one hide from but myself, and that's kinda scary.