ps. This is why blogs are crazy...

I mentioned this in a comment the other day, but now I'm realizing what pressure it's causing.

I'm sitting on my bed, in the room I grew up in. Above me, is a painting that my mom did of an old farm house. There are boxes and skis everywhere -- the stuff I'm leaving behind.

But unlike during the period of my childhood, when I write something in this journal, it doesn't just stay in a book that I have hidden under the bed. It gets posted (yes, I was aware of that), but it also gets emailed to anyone following this blog. That includes my father, who is downstairs working in his office.

This makes for the weirdest conversations. I write something up here and then go downstairs to do something (say, to put away my peanut butter toast plate) and then find that we're already mid-conversation.

The other day, when I said I was tired, he said I was going to the gym -- he'd had an email telling him so.

Today, I guess he'll hear about the contents of these letters without having to climb the stairs.

It's going to take me some time to get used to this.

Today will be a multi-post day, it seems. Hopefully that's not too much for everyone -- you included, Dad.