All right, I’ll go. But you can’t make me have a good time.

It’s true, you can’t.

If there’s one thing I’ve know through every tantrum I ever threw, every fit I ever pitched, every time I got dressed grumpily, it’s this – you can’t make me have a good time. It’s a comforting thought.

There comes a time too early in your life when you realize that your will will not be done. The only way to deal with this is to do it with extremely bad grace. Be surly. Be unpleasant. Drop things and don’t pick them up. Take up more space than you need. Snap at people trying to cheer you up. Don’t smile for longer than absolutely necessary. Be icy. Yeah.

If the world was a graffiti board, what would your inscription read? Often I think about things like this. And the best I’ve come up with is – I wasn’t here. I’m not a morbid person and I don’t have a death-wish (sometimes I wish I did, some focus would be nice). But the way I go through life is walking backwards, erasing my tracks. I’m convinced they are bad tracks and I hate that they ruin the nice clean ridges in the sand. But once you start walking you’re going to leave tracks. I have some trouble with this concept.

This is too long for a first post. What will you think of me? I was going to do something shy, self-conscious and short. Like me. But then what’s the point of having another identity exactly like the old one?