I didn’t do anything remotely funny today.
Truth is, I’m feeling a bit sad. After nearly three weeks of being here, Jessica is heading back to Atlanta in a few days with her cat and dog. It’s been over two years since my wife moved out, and to have somebody at home has been wonderful.
Yesterday I wrote about how I disgustingly wash my dog’s bathroom in the dishwasher several times a year. I’m sorry you had to read that (and if this is your first visit, you’re heading there now).
I poked my girlfriend (not that way) as we’re lying here in bed because I forgot to post today and I need to keep up my streak of no misses in 2012. We had just watched We Need To Talk About Kevin which was fantastic but also one of the most depressing movies I’ve seen. I have absolutely no funny in me. And for some reason I’m terrified. I had to ask Jessica to hold me. Then I asked her what to write about.
It’s been at least a week since I grossed you out. “Too long!” some may shout. “Not long enough!” others will cry.
I, myself, subscribe to the “Too long!” camp.
My dog, who just turned four is seven pounds. I live on the top floor (4) of my condo building, and there is no elevator. When my ex-wife and I got the dog we bought a PetLoo. Nowadays there are many copycat products, but the original was developed by an Aussie woman.
My friend Mary C (not an alcoholic, I just like calling people in that format so that others think they’re alcoholics) asked me this question today.
Have any of your readers become weird and obsessive?
I laughed because my self-esteem is not that high. The thought that somebody would be so fascinated by me that they decided to cross boundaries is absurd. I mean, I suppose it could happen. But it hasn’t. And I’m guessing probably won’t.
A few months ago I mentioned I was working on a big project. I asked many of you to sign up for my private list so I could get your feedback.
I am sad to announce that I decided to not move forward with the project. Since it’s scrapped, I’ll tell you what was in the works.
Yesterday I wrote about how I sweat through shirts when it’s hot out. I think my body just runs warmer than most. It’s not a lot of fun when you’re trying to impress a chick at the Taste of Chicago in early July eating a turkey leg sweating like a moron.
Since we’re not a military family, Memorial Day is time we spend with each other. My sister, boyfriend, and parents are up here, along with my girlfriend.
Even though have a loving and supportive family, I need to vigorously exercise to feel comfortable around them. Basically it’s the equivalent of taking a few belts of Schnapps before Thanksgiving dinner. A mellower. Since I don’t drink, exercise is the only option. Valium works too, but I’m one of those sober people, so I can’t do that. Damn my addictive genetics!
Was 98 degrees in Chicago and we tooled around doing stuff outside. My mom, dad, girlfriend, sister and boyfriend are all here.
One of the weird body things I have that I can’t seem to change is this sweating thing.
Here’s the deal. I don’t sweat under my armpits. Not sure why. I mean, maybe it’s just that I use deodarant, but I’m pretty sure most dudes do. Some guys, though, halfway through the workday their nastiness has bled through the undershirt and into the Brooks Brothers. It’s awful to look at, and those poor shirts just get ripped up. Those guys might as well just buy yellow shirts to match the future armpit stains.
How many Chihuahuas are currently sleeping in your bed?
All of you that have less than two please take one giant step forward. Not so fast, Mr. Paris.
My girlfriend Jessica has been here for the past two weeks. She brought her cat and dog, who happens to also be a chihuahua. His name is Dirk. Mine, as you may know, is Lil’ Miss Meepers. Both dogs get along swimmingly and cause no problems in my life.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
