300 days ago, it was all new. Shiny. Intimidating. Sparkly.

I remember the first post that I wrote; I wondered who would judge, who would wonder, who would form a conclusion. By the end of that first week, I couldn’t have cared less; I was writing, and I was saying what I wanted to say. And I loved it.

I didn’t know that 300 days later I’d still be here doing this, but I hoped I would be.

The first 30 days needed a recurring reminder; I set one up on my Blackberry, and by day 31 I knew I could delete the reminders for the rest of the year because the routine had become so normal; it was ingrained in me.

Many of my posts have been meaningful. Many more have skewed a bit ridiculous; writing about my boobs and my obsession with cream of mushroom soup isn’t exactly prize-winning material. Others have been what I call throw-away posts; the latter is something I’ve written to meet the nightly deadline — not indicative of any post that I’ve felt has been one of my better ones.

At first I thought that every post had to have deep meaning to me. Then I realized that every post simply has be to one that I’ve enjoyed writing; between the comments, the calls, the emails and the Facebook messages, I’ve also realized that most posts resonate with at least one person, on some level, in some way. And that’s more than I could ever have asked for.

Tonight is my 300th consecutive post, and I am thankful for the addiction that this blog has become, for the focus it has brought to my evenings and for the desire it has instilled in me to keep something, even a weekly blog, going in the coming years. I am thankful for your comments, your feedback and your appreciation.

300 is a big number, but it’s not the final number. Here’s to 66 more Thankys.

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