Am I really starting a blog? A terrifying question and one I don’t even want to think about answering. Do I have what it takes to be one of those people who blog?  Okay, let’s go with that, it’s a little less nauseating. But without doing any research, ever reading a blog, saying the word blog, or meeting a person who blogs, I ask my brain-fingers to sift through the clutter and dig up anything I might think I know about blogging. So they sift and they sift and eventually unearth three “truths” of people that blog—we call ’em bloggers in the biz, a biz I have absolutely nothing to do with—which I share with you now.

Number one: All bloggers have mustaches. That’s a given.

Number two: They aren’t out in the open, at libraries or Starbucks or anywhere with good lighting. No, these shifty bloggers stay hidden. They dwell in dark, strange, underground places. Like that nut from Silence of the Lambs with the skin-dress—I bet that guy blogged.

Number three: Bloggers are obsessed with what they blog about. I bet if I searched for a blog specifically about soups that old people like, I would find it, and I’d guarantee that blogger is either obsessed with soup or old people, maybe both.

So, then, in summary, bloggers are obsessed people that inhabit dark places and have mustaches. Those are the three universals—the bloodline of blogging.

My problem is I’m not really obsessed with anything. I mean, I once ate shrimp for a stretch of ten consecutive lunches and dinners, but it forced me off seafood for several months so that fixation is a thing of the past. And without a single true obsession, I’m afraid my blog-posts-to-come are going to be pretty much random. You know, we’ll get into books and writing a little bit…certain movies or shows that people seem to like even though they actually stink…possible reasons why this one cashier at the grocery store hates me—stuff like that. And hopefully you’ll enjoy some of it.

Let’s not kid ourselves, though, without fulfilling all of the blogging criteria stated above, we know the odds are against me: a thirty-two year-old kid just trying to make it out there—a lost man-child trying to find his way. But since I’m sitting Indian-style in the dark corner of somebody’s basement right now with the upstarts of a nice wispy little mustache going on, I figure two out of three gives me a shot.