Just a few minutes ago, I came across a file on my computer, written by my sister. I'll call her Sally for now, because when she was born, I wanted to name her Sally, like the rhyme: Sally sells seashells on the seashore. I thought it was quite enchanting. My parents disagreed.

Anyway, it was titled 'Introduction and History.' Being the nosy person I am, I clicked on it. What popped up? A completely blank page. It got me to thinking, that's the best history one can have. Whether she meant to or not, Sally created one of the most important masterpieces in the world: a blank history.

If all students' textbooks of history were filled with blank pages, the world could not possibly be a better place.

I know, I know, this is the opinion of an 'unlearned person', and many people doubtless disagree with my little epiphany. "History is grand!" they shriek. "Study it, learn it!" They would recite that famous quotation, "Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it." Or something like that.

But in my opinion, after being a student forced to read lines and lines of dates and battles and Prohibitions and the like, I've been forced to conclude that history will spiral onward and onward forever, whether we know about it or not. It's an unbreakable cycle.

Somebody should invent an AA-type program for the world to break its habits of war and malevolence.

Can't you just imagine the world's once-great dictators, sitting on chairs in a circle, one tearfully rising and saying 'I've reached my ninety days! No death, doom, or destruction for 3 whole months!" and the rest of the fascists applauding and wiping their eyes with off-brand tissues? Silly, I know, but meaningful nonetheless, to me if to no one else.

Just a note to you readers, whoever you may be: I have a penchant for lying. It's the only thing I am even remotely good at. So how can you tell when I'm lying? You can't. You have to blindly believe everything I write, unless you are a particularly suspicious type.

But I swear to you, I will not lie in this book. I have already been sorely tempted to make some details up, but I will not include one measly fact that is not the truth. I will tell you of my lying, but I won't lie to you. I promise. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Introductions; what do they matter? All names  in this book are not the real names of anyone I know. I won't compromise their privacy. I won't even compromise my own meager privacy. I will call myself Cecily. Cecily March. I've always found that a rather lovely name, and I'm proud to take that name myself. My sister will become Sally March. My father will become Vernon March. My mother will become Lavinia March.

What a prosperous-sounding family! The Marches; Vernon, Lavinia, Cecily, and Sally, the oil-well inheritants.

Yes, I realize that inheritants is not a word. But it sounds like it should be, so I will use it as I see fit.

Already as Cecily March and her finely named family, I find myself wanting to become her. So I will. From this moment on, for all intents and purposes, I am Cecily March. How do you do, nice to meet you. This book is fiction and fact at the same exact time! Then again, most things are, really.

Music is the one thing in life I have ever been able to fully trust. When a song is on, I turn my soul over to the music and every fiber of me listens and appreciates. My God, that sounds corny. But it's  true and I promised to tell the truth, nothing but the truth. I'll honor my promise to you, anonymous reader. How couldn't I?

Lying to a reader is like lying to a brick wall: it doesn't matter, because neither can tell the damn difference. Not that you are a brick wall. I'm sure  you're a thoughtful, personable individual, not at all like me. But this is an autobiography, so I will get off the subject of you and onto the subject of myself, Cecily March.

I was not always so full of immorality and pointless idiosyncrasies. Once I was an idealistic little kid like everyone else, blah, blah, blah. The truth is, I don't know what to say about myself. I have all these things that I want to say, but I don't know how to get started.

I guess it's like learning to swim or fly or ride a bike: you just jump right in, trial and error, practice until you get to Carnegie Hall, etc. I'm not making any sense. I was afraid that this is how this book would turn out. Nonsensical, all of it. Sorry.

My eyes are glazing over from staring at the screen, so I'll look out my window for a minute. Be right back.

Not much to see out there. Gray sky, row of houses, a dead bird or two. Sorry, I lied again. No dead birds. Just live ones. I can't help my deceitful personality from adding in a false adjective or untrue verb! What a tangled web we weave, indeed.

So here we go. The autobiography of Cecily March:

I hate pretentious, condescending people more than anything in the entire world.
I also hate being told what to do.

Sorry, that's a negative way to begin. Perhaps I should start out with what I like, and come back to what I don't. Here we go again, after several false starts.

One more thing: I'm banning the word 'sorry' from my book [unless, of course, someone says it in a recordable conversation]. Starting now. I am constantly apologizing for everything; at work, at school. I am finished being the world's [dishonest] doormat.

False start again! I'd apologize, but I am really not upset and nor should you be.
Okay. My favorite kind of day is a sunny one. The temperature should be between 70 degrees and 100 degrees. There should not be any obnoxious neighbors' dogs outside. That's enough for the present. See you tomorrow, book.

One more quick insight: you readers already know what's down under these words I'm typing. You know what this manuscript says. I do not, at the moment. You know more about Cecily March than I do. Congratulations.