Biological Viability: Confirmed.

It will come as a surprise to exactly no one reading this that I am in possession of a human infant. While this concept is rightfully frightening to anyone with an ounce of sense, my stewardship of said baby - commonly known as Oscar but known, in my heart of hearts, as Punchfist DANGER Incognito - is both legally and socially valid. In fact, it was surprisingly easy to find myself entrusted with an entire human being to raise: I didn't even need to take a test. I, in short, have a son.

Pictured here. Or...wait, no...

I have a son: four deceptively tiny words that carry within them the power to change a person's life. Certainly in the five months since Oscar was brought into the world, gooey and reeking of various fluids, my own has changed in ways that I couldn't possibly have imagined. And I don't mean that in some wishy-washy "My life has meaning now" kind of way: I've been peed on, cried at, deprived of sleep, and covered in so much baby puke that I half suspect I'll be coming out of this whole fatherhood thing looking like Kratos. Nevertheless, despite feeling like a human burp rag I've managed to form a bond with the tiny lump of flesh and screaming spawned from my junk. I, in my own way, have become a father - and I have a son.

Now, some of you may recall that I used to have a different blog, on a different site, under a different name. "Hey jerk," I hear you indignantly cry, having retained my ability to read the minds of imaginary readers. "What's with all the new crap?"
Firstly, rude. Do you kiss your hypothetical mother with that mouth? Secondly, you're correct. I did have a different blog, on a different site, under a different (crappier) name, which I abandoned because, shut up, that's why.

On second thoughts, probably me.

Now, some of you (that is, one out of my four readers) may instead be wondering why, if I so callously abandoned my old blog, would I start a new one? Why, after all this time, have I decided to put finger to keys, climb aboard my metaphorical soapbox, and add my tiny voice to the roar of the internet. The answer is simple: I have a son. And these are my letters to him. They may not start with "Dear," or end in "love," and they're not going to be about what I did today (probably). They're letters in spirit: a snapshot of today taken through the lens of someone who suddenly has to care , a picture of a world he's too young to understand kept aside for a day when he may be curious enough to learn. 

And more than that, these letters are a picture of myself. Of who I am, here and now, facing the world with a brand new baby. And maybe, in twenty years, when Oscar is himself as old as I am now; when the world has changed in ways I can't even begin to imagine; when I, myself, will doubtlessly be astoundingly divorced from the bewildered, transformer-loving meganerd I am today; maybe when the present has faded inexorably into the past, I'll look back at this, this intimate snapshot of my own once self - and maybe I'll find these are letters to me.
Now, noble intentions aside, there are other reasons to be doing this: I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally daydream of the holy grail of twenty-somethings everywhere - the vanishingly-rare lucrative blog - which is one reason I'm now on Blogger instead of Wordpress, since no one allows you to whore yourself out better than Google. The second reason is that I do dream of one day becoming a professional writer, and since anyone who's ever put pen to paper these days has three websites, eight blogs, and a twitter, I figured I might as well get into the game as well.
With any luck, I'll be updating every second Thursday, because Thursdays are neat.
Don't hold it against me if my updates are a little late though. 

After all: I have a son.