I am not thoroughly convinced about this blogging lark, it seems a bit ridiculous to me. I also feel a bit like Bridget Jones, writing down the stats of my life at this current moment in time may (inevitably) horrify me, but, on the upside I may get to rendezvous with a certain Mr. H. Grant and thus I must swallow my pride and take the leap into the virtual sphere of writing. Even it may mean I may die a horrible cringe-worthy death. Does this count as working? I'm trying to convince myself it does.
I imagine this may become as neglected as the several thousands of diary's I have acquired over the years, but if that is the case then this blog shall remain as the only surviving memoirs of the chaotic mind of a 19 (soon to be 20) year old Rebecca Elizabeth Fry. Scary mask, bro.