You were right, Celine. A new day has come.

I abhor trendy.

That being said, I am now forced to post a disclaimer rejecting "hipster" allegations. Face it, hipsters, you too are a fad, and by the grace of God, there will come a day when mankind will scoff at your too-new-to-be-authentic plaid shirts, your ability to identify indie music before it "hits the scene," and your decision to wear sunglasses at night. Or indoors. Or anywhere where UVA/UVB Rays are not actually an issue. (READ: Even Corey Hart is not above judgment.)

Right-o. In keeping with these sentiments, I have valiantly resisted the urge to blog. Each day, when another poor soul advertises his entrance into the blogosphere, I cringe and whisper a prayer that Facebook newsfeed filters may come to understand my desire for blog-free advertising.

Trendy? No thanks. My profuse apologies to Summer 2011's floral palette, the Bieb, Sillybandz (And frankly, all other things that end in "z," Boyz II Men excluded. Much love, Motownphilly: I hope to never reach the end of the road.) I resist your mass appeal and smirk from my place of Delphic wisdom. You won't take me alive!

And then the degree happened. Or, more aptly, I hunted it down and worked incessantly for four years - "Happened" is too passive. I then moved hundreds of miles away from the dear individuals who alternately drove me nuts and kept me sane, and I fell prey to the trend. I catered to the trend. I walked into the mouth of the lion and set-up shop. This, my fall from grace, is heretofore chronicled.

In truth, my track record with journals leaves something to be desired. I was under the mistaken impression that this new, techno-savvy Colleen could bolster her confidence and her journaling history with the astounding features of the "blog." Nope. It's like typing into a glorified email. (Alas.) On the bright side, I suppose this means more scope for the imagination...

At the end of the day, I shall embrace the newest addition to my Gmail "signature" - Blogger Extraordinaire. This troubadour and too-recent odist throws an obligatory bone to ED and Walt (America's poets, by God), chivalric love, and that kick-ass musician with Weezer glasses from Gilmore Girls. Alright, I admit it, despite the creep factor: I am immediately compelled to learn the names of actors/actresses I encounter. So, thank you, IMDB and Grant-Lee Phillips: Keep rocking that harmonica/guitar! (Rhetorical side-note: Did anyone know that a female troubadour is a trobairitz? I'll be honest, that requires too much work on my part to spell/remember.)

It's clear I am already struggling with too many parenthetical notes (it was bound to happen), so I desist. That's all for the inaugural post, folks. Expect a rhyme or two to appear, and if you've made it this far, God bless you. It's nice to know I have friends on-trend.

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A/N: Due to questions about my "plaid" remarks, let me take a moment to publicly state that I am not opposed to plaid as a fabric. In my lifetime, I have owned many plaid items, including (but not limited to) overalls, hair bows, Christmas outerwear, stuffed animals, and a Catholic school jumper from K-5th grade. Plaid is a wonderful and serviceable fabric. In recent years, however, it has become an easy target due to its popularity in young adult clothing, namely, tightly worn button-ups with exaggerated v-necklines. Said tops are often accompanied by a) skinny, darkwash jeans, b) a long scarf and fingerless gloves, c) a beret, or d) all of the above. Don't get me wrong, I love plaid that has been loved! If a fabric has a stamp of approval from Little House on the Prairie, you better believe I will treasure it. That goes for gingham, too.