Give me a year, and I can give you my life. Maybe.
I'm sure everyone starts this page the same way: "Wow, my first page per day!" Yeah, how original. I'm sure there are plenty of other people who had the same reaction as me. I can be cynical, sue me. Here I am, giving off an attitude that many people won't appreciate, and instead I'm thinking about all the things I could talk about; The stories I could tell, my past, my present, my future, all of that frothy business that most people don't care about. This could become a journal of sorts, another online thing to type in so people can peruse my life. I don't need you to be interested in my life. If you choose to do so, than welcome.
Blank pages are intimidating. One blank page isn't, but at the vast knowledge of thinking about what you can fill a blank page with, it can get a little nerve-racking. I've always liked the idea of blank things; if you look on my bookshelf in my room, it's full of blank notebooks from all over the place - black and white marble composition, spiral bound college ruled, artsy covers, three-hole punched, graphed lines, sketch books, you name it. I think it comes from my dad, he and I write all the time, and I noticed that he always had one lying around his apartment when I was younger. He and I would much rather write to a person than e-mail. Most of my birthday cards from him were notes tucked around a $20 in an envelope, usually accompanied by a collage of photo-copied images taped together before being scanned once more. I wish I would have saved them all and organized them all together in one giant puzzle. Made wall-paper for my white walled living space at the end of my mother's house. Man, it would have made her nuts.
My dear mother can't do anything without worrying what people will or say or what will happen to her. She worries a lot, another attribute I get from one of my parents. We both get quiet when we're upset, and are greatly frustrated by the same person - my father. They divorced when I was young, and I've only very recently started to understand why they split up. Don't get me wrong, I love my father, but he has a very sneaky way of pushing a person's buttons and not really giving a crap if he pisses them off in the process. Ask him to stop and he'll just prod more, one of those jabs that hits you right between the ribs. Regardless, once he realizes just how annoyed he's made his little girl, he'll grab me in a one-armed hug, pat my back, and say "I'm sorry, darlin'," which always produces a smile on my face.