My favorite blogs are fearless.
jesse: sorry I missed you yesterday
terry: no worries, seems like you’re going through some shit
terry: …if your blog is any measure
jesse: that’s par for the course
terry: this is the first time I said to myself: “Dude, dont you realize people might read this?”
Might read this? That’s the whole point! No, I’m not actually going through any shit — I’m just presenting a view of the dramatic aspects of my life. I could sum up the weekend as “I’m a college student who went on a bender,” and walk away from it happy, but since I’m writing for my own entertainment, I spun the evening into a wild bacchanalia where Dionysius himself pulled me aside and said “dude, seriously, I think you’ve had enough.”
I know that people will read this. In addition to the anonymous masses that roll through, there are a handful of friends and family members who come by every so often. Ex-girlfriends come by. Women whom I have almost dated come by. Women to whom I recently sent an email because I was hoping to get to know them better so that we could maybe hook up and see what happens ‘cause hey you never know where you’re gonna meet someone and why not a zombie crawl, I mean, how great is that story anyway come by.
Actually, I might have scared away that last class of women. I mean, come on, you’ve read my blog, it’s like a car crashing into a plane in mid-air. I’ve read it, it sounds like I have serious mental problems. It’s like I’m channeling dead crazy people.
I am disappointed with my last post, though. It was supposed to draw parallels between Cake Woman’s fears and my own, then blend in the apologies that I heard from everyone else, but I was far too tired to supply the required subtlety of prose. You might ask me why people were apologizing to me, and I might ask the same question. It seemed like there was consternation over the possibility that my feelings might have been hurt by events that transpired. I just kept getting apologies all day. They might have made more sense if I could remember the part of the night where I was crying as my roommates rolled me up the stairs and into bed, but that was probably just alcohol poisoning.
You might think to yourself right now “oh my god, how is he admitting this on the internet?” Well, I tell you what. I will tell this story to my mom the next time I see her. Tears will shoot out of her eyes. She might collapse in hysterics. Then, when she stops laughing she’ll probably ask me to help her move an obelisk from one side of her garden to another. If you don’t see how alcohol poisoning is funny, try reading that paragraph very seriously and then offhandedly drop in the last sentence.
I fear that this post is only incrementally better than the last. I’ll keep working on my writing. I have to write a paper for my art class anyway. Ugh.
P.S.: I’m pretty sold on Sprint for my wireless service, I think.