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Welcome to Garble, a blog of all the random bits and pieces knocking around in my head. I’ve never blogged before, and do so with some trepidation and skepticism. Who the hell cares what I have to say anyway? It seems so self-absorbed.

However, lately I’ve felt the need to write. I could easily just write in a journal, which I’ve done on and off since I was thirteen, but you know how journals can be. Whaaa whaaa whaaaa. Having an audience will keep me off that track, hopefully, and force me into trying to be a little more coherent–despite the name of the blog, Garble.

Where did this sudden need to write come from, you ask? Well, you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Russell Brand. Yes, that quirky and profane former heroin addict British comedian Russell Brand. After reading a few lovely articles penned by him after Amy Winehouse and Philip Seymour Hoffman’s deaths, I consulted the Google and discovered his memoir, My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up. Ewww. A celebrity memoir? I know, I know. That’s how I usually feel about them, too. But in the case of this memoir, Russell Brand actually wrote it, and the bloke can actually write. Very well, in fact. It’s the first time I’ve read something that made me want to write.

So, for better or for worse, welcome. Do tell me if I’m a crashing bore, will you?

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