It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp...

*** I have to preface today’s posting with this: I went to bed hella mad last night, which I never do, only to have my anger carry over into this morning and thus into my work day, which pisses me off even more. Ok, maybe hella mad doesn’t really describe it, I was mad at everybody and their dog (except the roommate because I’ve never been mad at her for longer than two seconds) but I’m in the process of trying to cool off now, so I’ll stick to that. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for the past hour or so contemplating how much calling out, clowning, and bitching, I’m going to do. Because really I’d like to just blast the hell out of several people. Regardless, this is what I came up with. ***

This online blog shit is a delicate science.

I go back and forth all the time with just how much I want to share. The stuff I am most excited about content-wise is always the most honest. It’s just that Yahoo! and Google are off the chain. And the availability of it all is just scary. This is why when I write something about a particular person in my life, I make sure to tell that person that he or she has inspired me to write something (And they get their very own nickname). That way, should they read the site, they’re not surprised.

And I say that, of course, as the owner of the thoughts, that I have poetic license. Most of the shit is accurate, but I censor, omit and/or revitalize tons from some of the stories because they can seem bogged down with negativity or so ridiculous it’s downright impossible. I swear to God I was asked if I'd be interested in being the love interest in the latest Ashlee Simpson video because I’m four inches taller than her. Was this invitation real? Don’t know (but I hope so because that would be the best day of my life!). Would you believe me if I told you so? Maybe. But that’s just too good to be true. Did a real live car salesman ask me on a date? Totally, but that just sounds fake. And I swear on my mother’s cat statues that I met a dancer at Burger King, a real dancer, that looked so amazingly hot in his sweat pants that I just had to say, “I can’t believe you’re real. They really make them like you? You’re so calendar.” I got all the game sometimes. So much game, I forgot my whole food order on the counter because of his disgusting attractiveness. Walked all the way to the car without my food, but on the trip back inside he did ask for my number. I just brushed some dirt off my shoulder if you missed it. Why am I saying all of this?

Well, the Internet is put here for you and me. It’s from the earth. Smoke it. You ain’t got no job, and you don’t have shit to do. (Or you do have a job and you should be entering that data, but you’re steady fucking around on my blog trying to clear that history every five minutes. I know who you are, and to be honest, most of this upkeep is for you. Cubicle World is fucking hard. I know because I’m right there with you and I’m just trying to do my part to make you feel better.) And I must admit that I am a total enabler in this oblivion. I just observe and make mental notes and stand there as pleasant as a peach. Somewhere along the way, through a combination of maturity and fear of being gagged and stuffed in a trunk, I’ve managed to find a filter. I used to be very stank, unnecessarily mean maybe. Being a trooper is just the way sexier choice. Maybe sexy isn’t the right word. Whatever. I’m just saying I always have been an enabler. How is it possible to encourage oblivion? Fuck. I’ve been known to bring a friend who smokes that desperately wants to quit a pack of cigarettes just because they were on sale. I’ll bring you a beer even though I see that your left eye is twitching uncontrollably and there’s spit-up on your neck. No peer pressure. I’m just trying to be nice. I mean, I am up. I must stop this cycle. But again, I digress.

To make sure no one’s feelings get hurt, I have to make this disclaimer. I’m in a very good writing space lately. That sounds gross to say out loud, but I get inspired by the people I meet every day. Inspired enough write some of this shit down because even I can’t believe it. So in this space, I can only write honestly. Now, here’s the disclaimer.

If you’re reading this, and it sounds an awfully lot like you or something you did and your feelings are hurt, that is not the intention and on top of that, this here is make-believe. I’m a fucking crazy person. My opinions are not to be trusted. I put M&Ms and Twizzlers in my popcorn. What? Who? I know right! What do I know? I don’t know shit about shit. I can’t boil eggs for shit. I misplace punctuation marks and quotations all the time. I don’t underline book titles, hyperlink, because I’m too stupid to get the HTML or whatever it’s even called down. And adding to that list of retardo shit, I’m really clumsy. Don’t let me hold that glass of Merlot near you, unless you plan on making that shirt the car wash shirt. See, I don’t know a damn thing. This here? Make-believe. All tomfoolery designed to make me feel better, I think. I don’t even know.

Nobody asked me to return a rental car (fucking Ford Focus – ooh alliteration) after a date. A snobby music guy never said, “Did you ring me up at Macy’s the other day?” when he saw me at a bar. Bitch. I’m a salesman now!? Throw me a bone dude. You see? None of this is really happening. It’s all an illusion, and when you wake up, you will feel ten times lighter.

Now, please wait for me to rock you like a hurricane. I still got some anger brewing over here in my pretend little world and my fingers are literally itching to get it all out of my system. Whether or not that will actually happen is to be determined.