I wish I could show you who I really was.

That is, if you really wanted me to. Not that I think you would, but just, only if you wanted to, if that's okay with you. I mean, I know some people think it's kind of stupid or offensive to write about yourself and what you feel and post your life on an online board for all the world to see, but then, it is my journal, right? It's my rented binary address on the world wide web where I can safely sit myself down and say what I think and feel what I feel. Not that I'm forcing you to get a load of what I say; you're free to come and go as you wish, I won't hold you.

It's only that, I think, the moment you choose to stay and read what I write, you have already said yes to an unwrit agreement between us that as reader, you will respect and aim to understand what I say, and will withhold comments, suggestions, and violent reactions until I finish. And I, as writer, will aim to meet you halfway by writing in a manner that I hope will be best to help you understand, without prejudice, without malice or untoward hostility or offensiveness.

The minute you begin to read the first sentence of any entry on this page, you say "yes" to this little tete-a-tete of ours. It all boils down to that, really, a friendly conversation between two strangers on pixelized paper. And, like in most friendly conversations, good manners and courtesy are very much appreciated.

The simple rules of a real-time, day-to-day chat, really.

I think that's how mostly how blog etiquette works.

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This is a journal.

Yes, this is a place where I can record thoughts and feelings on a particular situation, event, conundrum, and whatever the cosmos decides to throw me, but then again, this isn't your ate's typical "dear diary" thing.

What makes it so different from its ink-and-paper predecessor (as most of you probably know by now, and if not, shame on you!) is it's availability to every inernet-able corner of the world for viewing, analyzing, butchering, digesting, and ever quite possibly concept pick-pocketting. (it really wouldn't hurt to ask my permission, you know.)

Now then, as blog-keeper and its author (and as a general rule, so does this go with every person who owns and keeps a blog), I supply my (supposed, real or otherwise) readership with, of course, entries to read. The depth, breadth, and width of what I write is entirely up to me. I can either choose to tell my readers how I played for tickets in an arcade and won myself a plushie and how fun today was, or I can ponderously examine what indeed is the meaning of life. To each his own. Now, shall we say, you as my reader, since you have chosen to take part of this hidden repartee with me, are most welcome to enjoy whatever I have put down on yet, another rule:

Should a situation ever arise where the author reveals something important to him or her( a birth, a death, a gain, a loss, a value, a personal ideal, a dream either broken or in flight), you as reader, as having partook of this person, have an understanding with the author to respect his or her wishes and what he or she feels. It ultimately goes without saying.

(Hmm. for some reason, it felt rather silly writing down this second bit. Like writing an etiquettical constitution. and for some reason, I think the idea even sounds British. Good Heavens.)

Now, if at any point you choose to completely ignore this and disregard and be totally irresponsible of whatever hurt you may cause the hypothetical author in the middle of a thought on his mother's wake, or a reflection of transition, or the like with a big crisp-green "fuck you, you sniveling pussy", may you rot in hell stuck right up the Minotaur's runny hairy arse.