To blog or not to blog

That is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of wonderful memories, or to take arms and blog about them.

The jury is still out on it. Maybe I will fill you in on every detail of my evening, or maybe I will take them to bed with me to nurse me through my loneliness and cut my conscious to the core.

Instead I'll tell you a lovely story about a boy and his cheeseballs. There once was a boy who loved cheeseballs. He loved them so much that when he was to go camping for a week he stocked up on several cans of them. Yes, they were sold in cans in those days. Too bad I haven't found any like that in years. Anyway, the boy loved his cheeseballs. He ate them, enjoyed them, and even when stuck in traffic, shared them with a random group of Canadians. How generous he was with his cheeseballs. His cheeseballs earned him a loving nickname. Cheeseball. His love of cheeseballs touched the heart of a girl who too learned to loved those tasty cheesy little snacks. But, alas, it wasn't to be. The cheeseballs made him wicked, untrue, and he flew away to another bird's nest. It was to her he gave the first bite. Now, the lonely cheeseball-boy loving girl has nothing but the memory of that boy, his cheeseballs, and the intriguing way he licked the cheese from his fingers in delight as they sang "Oh Danny boy".