When I was a little girl, a common birthday gift was a diary. It would often depict a unicorn or a pegasus jumping over a rainbow on the cover or, for those not into such fanciful creatures, there were models available with kittens or puppies to satisfy every estrogen-laden emotional whim. It would come with a flimsy little key allowing you to unlock a glued-on lock that any third grader could've picked with a paper clip.

It seems ludicris now but when you were that young, that tiny lock and key were as valuable as any bank vault. At that point in your life, your dreams and fears were your most valuable posessions, your only posessions really. You would've taken them to your grave rather than allow them out into the open.

Now we blog.

We can't wait to share our day, our dramas, our fears with the world. Somehow, sending our dreams out into a faceless abyss seems safer than sharing them with one person in the same room. It's a strange state of affairs. Would the world be different place if everyone had to wear their blog posts on their chests everyday? Would it be better? Does anybody give a fuck?

Guess that's a line of questioning for a person much deeper and saner than me. Besides, I was the girl who traded in her unicorn diary for a Stephen King book and Duran Duran button. It was a sweet trade.