…and I ain’t draw no good neither.
Looking at 2014, I’ve posted a measly four times.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” you say, to which I lovingly take you into my long wiry arms and stroke your hair: Shhh, sweet darling. Go to sleep now.
I published 20 posts by this time last year, so, why the drastic drop in productivity?
Steve Guttenberg Movie marathons.
More Guttenberg Movie marathons.
New relationship on the fence. Why?
She says I watch too many Steve Guttenberg movies (Kidding – Bones and I are great).
A lot of you have families, children, your own companies, or you dabble in crime fighting AND you have time to blog. I respect you deeply. Where do you find the time? Seriously, give me some of that time or I’ll cut you…
I hear the millions upon millions of new followers from this year, whom I don’t really deserve, inevitably yelling, “Boring. Entertain me, Clown!”
No Pain, No Rogaine
I discovered I have 10-15 gray hairs in my beard, and my forehead seems to be growing. How long until I’m officially a five-head silver fox? How long after said moment do I just look like a wrinkled sack of…well…balls?
The many ‘almost deaths’ of the prematurely-silver pup.
The first time I almost died in my house, I had had a couple of wine drinks and made a cozy fire in the fireplace thinking the flue was open. An hour later I woke up to a Snoop Dogg induced haze and I had to military crawl to the windows and doors to open them.
I should have died. I’m fucking dumb.
People at work asked why I smelled like campfire a good month afterwards as I had smoked everything I own, mostly my clothes.
“Uhh, went camping this weekend with my entire wardrobe…haha (*tear).”
Last Friday, I stayed up late and watched a string of horror movies (changed up the Guttenberg run). I live alone, so I went to sleep a little on edge: 1.) I’m blind without contacts, which I take out each night 2.) I only have a baseball bat to protect me from intruders or boogeypeople (there can be boogeygirls, equal opportunity, see: The Ring, or anything starring Kirstie Alley).
Around 4 in the morning —it’s all blurry o’clock—my cat, Thief Richards, decided to knock a frisbee off the dining room table onto the (hardwood) floor causing quite the clatter. I arose (fell) out of bed to see what was the matter (grasping for the baseball bat) and ended up dinging (smashing) my noggin (skull brain) into the wall. Oh dear (FUCKING ow), I politely exclaimed.
It was then I had a starry-eyed revelation: that’s how I would be found – half naked, neck broken, blind, all because of a frisbee…
Coroner: “Subject seems to have been under duress, possible nighttime hallucinations.”
Rookie Cop: “Poor guy. Lived alone with his cat. Pretty lame if you ask me.”
Coroner: “Couple of gray beard hairs, has silver fox potential.”
Rookie Cop: “Had. HAD silver fox potential. I’ll check the dresser for cash.”
Balls Part 2
I was scraping sloppily applied (and subsequently, dried) grout off my newly finished bathroom tile this evening, thinking about how lovely molding would look around the base of the floor/wall and how it would really…
…this train of thought prompted a paralyzing moment of sheer panic: holy shit, I’m an adult.
Not sure how long I was bound to the soothing temperature and acoustics of the floor, but anyone who moseyed into my house at that moment would have found me rolled up in a ball with a razor blade in my hand softly chanting Aum Namah Shivaya, from the heart removal scene in ‘Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom’.
I did the only logical thing I could think to do —put on my ‘Class of ’99’ t-shirt I got when I was fifth grade, and headed to Burger King to ease myself into the play area ball pit. I call this childhood submersion, but the police call this Alligator Pedophile. No charges were filed.
Bliters, whoggers, whatever, amen.
Are you a blogger or a writer?
I’ve had a problem with my allegiance and there’s an argument for either side. I’ve always viewed blogging as practice writing, but it seems bloggers have somehow penetrated News as legit sources of information. This is confusing, and maybe a testament to the expeditious manner in which resources are checked/not checked before stories are run. We are a ‘now’ society; bloggers are ‘now’ writers. Maybe I’m part blogger AND writer; a wagger? Maybe I’m neither.
What are you?
This was fun. I’ve missed posting. I’m back.