A Word of Warning

personal, blog comments edit

I’ve heard from a couple of people that come by to read the site that I should offer “some sort of language warning” up front because I cuss every once in a while. Well, I was thinking about that while using the restroom just now, and I’ve decided that my response to that is simple:

Fuck that.

I’m not here to entertain your kids or read you Richard Scarry books. I’m here to write about me (which, while admittedly self-centered, is the point of the site). You, I presume, are here to read about me, which automatically makes you my best friend ever.

In the process of writing about me, I try to approximate my actual thought processes and feelings, so that you might get an understanding of how I tick. I further hope by doing this that I can read back through this jumbled mess and maybe even I can get a better understanding of what the hell I’m thinking.

The point is, you’re here of your own volition. You’re here because you love me, or are learning to love me, or maybe you hate me and want to figure out how to psychologically punish me in the most egregious fashion. Regardless, you came to me, most likely already knowing me, so you probably had an idea of the substance you were stepping into before you got here. The fact I carry a “Fuck Off” mug around with me at work should have clued you in.

So, anyway, there’s your warning. If you don’t like it, tough cookies, baby.

In other news…

I thought about it today (again), and the more I think about it, the more I think I need one of those digital camera/cell phone things so that I can easily take pictures of the stupid crap I see. I am constantly bombarded with visual spectacles of moronic proportions, and I am always willing to share lunacy with my audience. The only problem I can see is that I find so many ludicrous things around to share with folks that I’d very soon run out of disk space on my account and I’d have to find a new place to host this blog. Which would also mean money out of my pocket, and, me being the cheap bastard I am, I’m not willing to part with said funds. So until I start feeling generous (or acquire the digital camera, at which point I don’t think I’ll be able to resist the Urge to Herbal), you’ll just have to make due with my textual descriptions.

I won’t tell you too much about my latest bout with stupidity, but let’s just say I have another restroom etiquette rule: If you splatter on the toilet seat, clean up after yourself.

I’ll leave the details to your imaginations.