A product of insomnia. A beginning.

Whose bright idea was it to make personal blogging the next big thing?

Everyone can be a writer, is a writer, while I -- an actual, honest-to-goodness, paycheck-earning writer -- feel invalidated in my craft because I really hate writing about myself. And by "really hate," I mean "vehemently detest." (Note to self: Learn new adjectives. Or, at the very least, use the adjectives you already know. You're beginning to bang out words online like a cookie cutter on a sheet of dough.)

And so in early June, after graduating triumphantly and completing a thesis begrudgingly, I claimed this corner of the Internet for myself to declare unto the masses: Behold! I am a writer. Thou shalt embrace me, throw money at me, and name thy firstborn in my honor.

...But the time never seemed right and the thoughts never seemed appropriate to begin cluttering the interwebs with insightful verbosity. And as the weeks passed and I let writing prompts slink into the recesses of my scatterbrain, it was no longer just an anxiousness about setting words in digital stone that barred me from doing anything so decisive as hitting a few keys and pressing "publish." It was the passage of time itself, the slow settling of apathy and the resignation of "If I haven't begun already, what difference will it make to wait another day or week -- or perhaps to never begin at all?"

After all, it's difficult to convince myself that anyone else will care when I make a new inscription because, who am I kidding, I barely care myself.

But today, in this moment, at 4 a.m., when I should be sleeping but am instead listening to a loop of the Fab Four's harmonizing ooh-la-las and hey-na-nas, the time is write (right?). So here you go. This is my first offering. (And, let's be pessimistic, folks -- this could be my only offering for all you and I know.)

And so, before I trade my pounding head and bleary eyes for a spell of sleep, I make my opening bow on the well-worn and painfully self-indulgent stage that is personal blogging.

Hair: A haiku

Late morning, I wake,
my hair looped and messy like
second grade cursive.

Now, sleep.