I am a horrendously indecisive person. You might not think so by the way I write, but that's only because writing is the alternate universe in which I am a confident, witty, commanding person (actually, I'm fairly witty in the real world too, but here my humor is honed and edited to my exacting standards. Speaking is so unpolished; everything you say is a first draft). Every time I go shopping, whether it be for clothes, groceries or home appliances, I am entrenched in a constant battle with myself as to whether or not a) I genuinely need to purchase this item b) this item is too expensive or c) there is a cheaper alternative of comparable quality. I can spend hours browsing a minimal selection of socks, forcibly differentiating between the subtleties of midnight blue with cream toes and black with white accents (for the record, the latter option is preferable).

Perhaps the most challenging thing on which I must render a decision is the title of my entries. Too often I find the titles that drift to the forefront of my cerebral cortex are insanely hokey and have the ring of teen lit mediocrity. "Wisdom in Sandwiches" still haunts me to this day, and it's precisely that kind of Ibsen quality sludge that causes me to so frequently abstain from naming my publications. However there is one title with which I'm still wrestling, and it happens to be the title of this blog.

When I broke the promise to myself that I would never start blogging, I had to prove that I was the exception. I wouldn't try to pretend I was unique, I wouldn't profess to have unimaginable terrors in my life that my parents couldn't possibly understand, and above all I would never make arrogant claims to omniscience. A personal mantra that all young people should take to heart is one of my favorite quotes from Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, who penned, "I am not young enough to know everything". I must remain steadfast in the knowledge that the world has not yet sufficiently kicked my ass enough times for me to claim credibility.

In order to show that I was no ordinary blogger, I fashioned a name for my page that I was sure was neither cliche nor predictable (pretentious is another matter). I would not be "Just Another Nobody", or "Confessions of a 19 Year Old Kid". Such titles are for adolescents who count themselves alone in the number of people who believe them to be crafty and prodigiously skilled writers. In fact, those of you who read my first introductory post (which I have since deleted as I realized in retrospect that it wasn't worthy of publication in USA Today, let alone on my blog) know that the origins of "Tortured Letters From A Sidewalk Cafe" is neither depressing nor an attempt at invoking emotional depth. I actually chose it from a line in a David Sedaris novel, a comedic piece whose imagery struck me as both intriguing and darkly whimsical.

However, as my indecisiveness rears its ugly head, I'm forced to acknowledge that out of context, the name of this blog looks like the title of a poem from a misguided yet average youth whose parents have recently gone through a routine albeit slightly complicated divorce. If I ever post a poem on this blog, do not read any further. Ever since the death of T.S Eliot, poetry is a sure indicator that a human being is in decline. Take heart and know that no matter how much the contents of my works may stand at odds with the title of the electronic anthology that binds them together, I will never torture you with a letter from a sidewalk cafe.