I posted this in December 2003, just a month after a started blogging and right before I would start my first daily newspaper internship in Palm Springs. (At this time, newspapers still had a pulse. Oh, have things changed.) In a way, reading this depresses me because I’ve lost much of that foolish vigor, but it also helps me understand that no matter how unsure I am of myself, as long as I take the leap, I’ll end up okay. I’ve done okay.

Thank you, fans.

You three have provided purpose to my otherwise pathetic existence. Rambling in this blog for the past couple of weeks has become my favorite way of make-believing I am a writer. I must say that Xanga has almost cured my Attention-Deficit (as in, I’m not getting enough) Disorder and has acted as smack-in-the-face proof when I tell people I’m published. The ”hey, nice journal” comments make me tingly inside.

But snapping out of weblog fantasyland, I’ve lately been having to stop myself every few hours to suck in small whiffs of reality - the fact that THIS is what I somehow selected as my career path. No, I am not training to be a professional blogger (although please let me know if you hear of any openings). I mean being a real journalist. Pretty soon, I’ll be jumping into that whole daily newspaper internship shindig and to be quite honest, I’m terrified. What have I gotten myself into? From what I know of myself, I’m as sloth-like (and sometimes almost as ditzy) as Jessica Simpson, I crack under pressure and my main source for news is still Leno. But brilliant me decided to go for one of the most deadline-driven and demanding careers I can think of. Ay ay ay.

Yet despite the odds against me, I, for once, am going to make myself tough this out. Partly because I’m getting tired of folding velour sweatpants at Express but mostly because I believe that everyone should be truly passionate about whatever they choose to do. When your most valued compliments are on the work you take pride in and your biggest inspirations are the people who do your job well, then you’ve found what’s going to make you happy in the long run. Don’t settle, just keep swimmin,’ and please remind me to do the same when I call you mid-nervous breakdown in about a month or so.