You can't tear the pages out of a blog, can you?

So I've jumped on the blogging bandwagon. I'm not really sure how the blogging world works, and I don't necessarily have anything particularly novel or interesting to say, but I figure maybe this will get me to keep some sort of journal. So even if no one else ever reads anything I write, it's just fine, because at least I can print out the things that I blog about and save them for my posterity. Heaven knows how little this poor, deprived posterity presently has to read from me...

I've never been a diligent journal-keeper, with maybe one exception. When I was about 12 and living in France, I received a little diary (with a lock and key! Like, how totally fresh is that?) as a birthday gift. I wrote regularly in that little book. It was a great record of the friends I had and all the great trips we took all over Europe. Totally worth keeping, right? Well, one of my dear children found this cute, little book, and thought it would be great for his/her own use. The only thing keeping the book from being absolutely, completely perfect was the writing on a few of the pages. "Not really a problem," I imagine this child thinking. "I'll just remove those few pages, and this book will be as good as new!" I'm sure my reaction upon finding the pages--each in about 3-4 pieces (kids don't have the manual dexterity needed to cleanly rip pages out of a book, don'tcha know)--can be justified.

Why, oh why couldn't this beloved child have chosen my other journal, the one from high school, to hijack? The few entries I did make in the journal of my adolescence are embarrassing, hyper-emotional drivel, and the only reason I haven't burned it is the deeply-rooted belief that YOU MUST PRESERVE YOUR HISTORY--all that "turning the hearts of the children to their fathers" business we learn in Sunday School. But, come on, really, do my kids and grandkids really need to read the really bad poetry I composed as an awkward, angst-driven teen? I swear the only time I ever wrote in that journal was when I was oh-so-depressed. Does that melodrama really need to be preserved for generations to come? I think not. Then again, maybe my posterity would be grateful to me for giving them a good laugh ("Great-Granny was kind of a dork, wasn't she?").

So, anyway, I hope I can write at least a few things worth reading. And if I manage that, hopefully none of my kids will figure out how to delete them!