Biting The Bullet. But Not A Bullet. That Would Hurt.

I've been away from this blog for a week. My time was committed to visiting relatives, being jolly, and then sleeping 19,034,803 hours while my in-laws watched over my children.

Now I'm facing my blog, and I can't write.

It's not because I no longer want to blog. I do.

It's not because I have nothing to say. I do.

It's because I'm afraid. Starting my blog was like jumping off a bridge, except I didn't get wet. Baring my self, my opinions, and my writing to the world was like facing down a grizzly bear, while wearing nothing but a suit of marshmallows.

Little known fact. Bears love marshmallows.

Strangely enough, baring my self, my opinions, and my writing to friends and family was even more terrifying. It was like facing down a grizzly bear, while wearing nothing but a suit of marshmallows, and the grizzly is wearing a live hornet's nest as a hat.

Bear + hornets + hat = unstoppable killing machine.

And now, after a 5 day absence, I have to do it again. And it's damn scary.

So I'm writing this post to let every one know how chicken-shit I am. Then I'll promptly publish a second post, in hopes to bury this post under new material, not unlike a serial killer buries a body under a pile of mulch, covered by a second body. I think.