I called it CelebTweets. After a few posts went live a television producer contacted me with an idea. If I wrote fifty more of these she could pitch it to publishers and get a book made.

She cautioned me, however, to be very selective on what else I wrote on my blog. I did a lot of other styles of posts and she thought that might hurt my “brand.” If I wanted a book deal, I needed to decide if I would be the guy that bugs famous people on Twitter exclusively.

I decided against it. I wanted to do other things.

At the time I was separated and starting to go through a divorce which would become the most painful experience of my life. I had only, up until then, written silly posts. I was terrified to try anything unfunny. Looking back, I don’t know why this was such a scary proposition – I only had fifty readers. If nobody liked the serious stuff I could always go back to comedy.

By the way, my dad’s dick post is still the most popular story on this blog. Can you believe 154k visitors read that last year? Yes, that’s sad. And yes, I’m bragging.

I decided to change up my style. I started to chronicle feelings, thoughts, and perspectives around daily life. Sure I’d pepper in a joke or two, but the overarching theme was honesty and vulnerability. That was my mission.

In 2012 I ended up writing every day.  I published 185k words that year. And let me tell you, not all of the posts were gold. Some were flat out stinkers.

The number one reason bloggers tell me they don’t write more often is that they want each post to be gold. I understand. I do, too. But I have way more singles and doubles in me than home runs. I also have strikeouts.

Yesterday I struck out. I sat at my computer for two hours trying to save a piece of shit. It wasn’t working no matter how many times I edited. But, in a way, I felt okay about it. The piece was as good as it was going to get. I had pride because even though the post didn’t turn out perfect, I had done all that I could. I hit publish.

According to stats 74% of my daily traffic comes from new visitors. Today many people were introduced to my blog with maybe the worst post I have ever written. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t return.

So, why do I publish strikeouts?

One, failure is part of human experience. We all put effort into projects that don’t pan out. People relate to mistakes. Two years ago I dropped the need for my posts to be perfect and the weirdest thing happened. My viewership increased. The comments from readers got longer and more frequent. I was connecting with people at a deeper level than that of just fart jokes.

Also, many kept coming back after a less-than-stellar post. People forgive. I found that the only time anyone got pissed was when I didn’t share something intimate or “real.” Like if I wrote a joke that for a quick laugh I would receive little engagement.

I believe part of respecting and honoring an audience is to show them the truth. The flubs. Times that it doesn’t come together. As long as the writing is honest and in my voice I push it through. Now, I accept the consequences of this behavior, too. I lose readers who expect better consistency.

I guess at the end of the day I just want to feel good. During that marathon session yesterday I put my heart and sweat into that piece. I just re-read it again and yes, it’s cringe worthy. It was also the best I could do. I feel good about it because I see all the hard work that went into the process.

The question is, however – should I subject the audience to a mediocre post?

I’m probably alone here, but I say yes. A resounding yes. I just want to try my hardest and let the chips fall where they may. Were there readers bummed out after reading yesterday? I don’t know – I’m sure some were unimpressed.

So, here’s my deal. I write a lot. I have a boring, normal life and sometimes my posts will suck. Usually they won’t. Thanks for understanding.

photo credit: Plutor via photopin cc

Last Friday, like a good and dedicated employee, I went into work. There were some appointments I had set up for the early part of the day. On the way home I popped into a Dominick’s grocery store to pick up a few items needed for the weekend. I remembered that all my holiday cards had arrived after Christmas and I was to send them out that weekend.

The bozo working the cashier station had a frenetic energy about him and clearly was new to the job. He had to bug an associate with various questions while I was waiting in line. At my turn I asked to add some stamp books to the order. Of course he didn’t know how to ring it up, how many stamps were in a book, or that he was supposed to actually put the stamps in my bag. I made it home before I realized he had forgotten to give me the stamp booklets.

No matter – I would pick them up on Monday when I went back to work. Yesterday I learned that all the Dominicks had closed permanently on Sunday. The day after I bought my stamps. The day before I was going to show up and get my paid-for stamps. Apparently Dominick’s stores were underperforming and the parent company, Safeway, pulled the plug. I had spent a tidy sum on invisible stamps. I’m going to try to call the credit card company and see if I can get a partial refund on my order. That will be a fun call, explaining that 77% of the charges were legitimate.

For over three hours yesterday I addressed and stuffed dozens of holiday cards. Earlier this month I tweeted out that once again I would be giving away cards to readers and I received a shitload of requests. Apparently there are a lot of lonely people reading this blog. Kidding.

I spend a lot of time designing the card each year, and I had come up with two gags stuffed into each envelope. Well, for just under a hundred of you, your cards are somewhere floating around in the Chicago dump.

I was at work when a sharp pain hit my stomach. It was 9:34am.

The message was clear – I had thrown the cards away in the dumpster of my condo complex.

Leaving for work this morning I grabbed two garbage bags to take with me downstairs. In addition, I had all of the holiday cards stuffed in one of the old-school brown-paper grocery bags. I also had a dog strapped to my back in a backpack. Somehow by the time I made it downstairs (four flights) I had forgotten that the bag in my left hand was for keepsies and the garbage bags in my right hand was for throw-awaysies. All went into the bin.

Now, don’t feel too bad for yourselves. Feel bad for me. Here’s why.

Not only did I have all the holiday cards in that grocery bag, but also my fourth quarter company taxes with forms (including an annual report and checks for the government). I have absolutely no idea what forms were included or the amounts paid. Next are all the thank-yous for gifts received, including one to my girlfriend’s parents. Last are three winning scratch-off tickets worth $34. I don’t play the lottery, but for a goof I bought some for Beth and I as stocking stuffers. I’m pretty sure there was at least one other important item in the bag, but damned if I remember.

Bottom line – nobody’s getting a card from me this year. I apologize. I even had put the extra cards in the bag just in case somebody came to mind that I had forgotten. My mom and dad, sister, and grandmother are not getting their card either. It’s all in the trash. The best I can do is show you what you would have received.

The first is the card itself.

But that’s not all – not by a damned sight! I also included a holiday letter, outlining the family’s accomplishments, moods, and disappointments of the year.

Not my family, of course. Some letter I found online.

From 2008.

I had printed one for each person, folded and stuffed it into each envelope along with the card. I was most excited about this joke. Even though my friends and family would instantly understand the gag, I assumed that many readers would be confused since they might not be aware I wasn’t raised a Lambson.

 I’m not sure what else to say – I’m as disappointed as you. I’ll know you’ll eventually heal and this memory will only slightly affect you ability to enjoy future holidays, but I’ll still feel a little responsible.

Oh, and apparently asparagus is good for hangovers, in case you’re wondering what to do on January first. Just steam up a batch between dry heaves.

To be fair, this was unintentional. Had I known the actual truth (as I do now) I may have very well snapped the remaining thread of sanity holding me upright or thrown myself from a balcony screaming.

On my way home from work yesterday I put together some thoughts for a video blog. I wrote down eleven points I wanted to discuss including an upcoming trip, a holiday card I’m sending to readers, and a story about not picking up my dog’s poop (which I still don’t do even though I promised you I would).

I got home and set up the camera and laid out my notes. Usually what happens is that I have to film the segment multiple times. In the first few takes I’ll inevitably screw up the timing a joke or jumble some words or forget what the hell I was going to talk about next.

Once I get a solid full-length recording I’ll review it from start to finish with a discerning eye. Ten times out of ten I realize I waxed on too long about something that wasn’t entertaining or funny. Since my videos are only a few minutes long, I decide to re-record the entire video. This takes another two to three attempts.

Then I edit and produce. The whole project from start to finish takes about an hour to complete a two-minute segment. And if you’ve seen my videos, you’ll be surprised to learn that I can’t do it quicker.  I’m not exactly Federico Fellini, for chrissakes.

Back to last night – I started recording and kept screwing up the intro. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to thank everyone for reading my blog or wish them a happy holidays first. The words kept stumbling over themselves and I found myself doing take after take. I couldn’t get the intro right no matter what. I even rehearsed a few times after a dozen missteps. Nothing was working.

But I had committed to getting this video done. Plus, I have done enough of these vlogs in the past to know it just takes a few more attempts. I would eventually get it.

Four hours later, without a break, I got it done.

My voice was croaky and my eyes bloodshot. I couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds because I would get dizzy. For four hours I made mistake after mistake and couldn’t land the plane. My dedication, however, was unwavering. I kept going. And going.

I called Beth after I was done. She’s been on TV dozens of times and never needed more that one take for her segments, and many are filmed live in studio where mistakes are not permitted. I figured she’d get a kick out of my failures.

—

Had a little trouble tonight with the video – I’m pretty sure I did around seventy-five takes.

Holy shit, that’s nuts! You’re crazy.

Yes, going to pass out now.

—

So tonight Beth came over and, just for a goof I suggested I count up all yesterday’s takes, because that whole evening had been a blur. I probably had done more than seventy five.

Well, I started with file 18 – and then each take goes up sequentially by one. I ended up with file 216.

Yes, without exaggeration or mathematical error, I made 198 different attempts to film a two-minute video.

I couldn’t hardly believe it myself, but yet, there they were.

I’d like to think that I’m a hero to the undisciplined, that this is a shining example on how tenacity and perseverance can get you places. And I guess, in some small way that’s true.

But this was just plain lunacy. I remember at one point I noticed I had been unconsciously picking at a callous on the bottom of my big toe. I reached up to scratch my nose and I saw blood on my fingers. I had ripped through the callous into the actual skin. Didn’t feel it – had no idea. And I’m a guy that has never picked at himself – not even a scab.

I was out of my mind, I guess.

It’s clear I was having an off night. In fact it was the most off night I’ve ever had, creatively.

I’m not sure what to make of this psychologically. I was a rabid dog that was clamped onto a mailman’s leg unwilling to let go. And the end product wasn’t even that entertaining. Just a dumb “here’s what’s been going on” video.

So there it is folks. My craziness, front and center. I’m going to let it retreat for awhile in the corner of my psyche where it can rest. It’s earned some well-needed time off.

Back in high school when first dates were innocent and slow I assumed I was too ugly to attract a woman. (insert reader sob here. Wait… Did you actually sob? If not, go back and re-read. I want sobbing, dammit!) I did go on one date, but that was it. Other than a random kissing session, that was all I had.

Most of college went the same way until I went out with my first real girlfriend, Lisa. She and I clicked right away and started a relationship. It ended when I graduated a few months later. Then I was in St. Louis for a year not doing much of anything. I simply didn’t know anyone. After that I went to work for the beer company and traveled 100% for two years. The longest relationship I had was a week in Buffalo. That’s it.

Then I got off the road and went nuts for a few years in my twenties. I met a ballerina later on and dated her for several years. But she lived in a different state, so I never saw her. After that I basically met my wife and got married a few years later. After the divorce I dated a reader of the blog, interestingly enough, but that just ended a few months back. More or less, that’s my dating history.

Now that I’m single again I’m actually going to be dating for real for the first time in my life.

Here’s an important distinction I just learned – you shouldn’t always go for the heavy makeout on the first date.

I had no idea that wasn’t appropriate. I don’t think I’ve ever had a first date where that didn’t  happen. I just assumed that was how you determined if the date was going well. If you got the makeout it means she likes you. This is the level of my dating maturity. So, I’ve always gone for the makeout. And, I’ll tell you, it can make someone really uncomfortable. Ha. I swear on the Bible I just assumed every date should end with a heavy kissing session.

By the way, can we bring back the phrase “necking”? I’m not 100% sure what it means, but is sure sounds awesome.

Well, just recently I ruined an opportunity for a second date for  this very reason.

I went in for the kiss. I went in hard. She initially pulled away (I was very persistant). Eventually she relented and kissed back. We did a standard five-minute makeout. I thought the rest of the date went great. The next day she IMd me and said that while she had a fun time she now only wants to  pursue  a friendship as she was uncomfortable with how forward the first date became. She was right to think this. She didn’t really want to kiss me. I took this initially as rejection. Actually, it wasn’t. She has continued to build a relationship with me and I believe she’ll be a good friend.

When I met with my therapist this week I knew it was time to sort out my need to get quick physical approval from a woman. The reality is I just didn’t have any experience otherwise. She reminded me that seduction is to build naturally and can’t be forced. It’s also not the acid test to determine is the date is going well. Lastly, just because I’m horny doesn’t mean I need to act on it. When I started to mention that I felt the urge to kiss women on dates, she held her hand up to stop me and just said, “Resist.”

I need to remember that dating is an interview. You’re both learning about each other and determining if the position fits.

Get it?! Ugh – that was terrible.

While a first date could lead to everything including sex or nothing physical the most important piece is that you spend time trying to connect.

Now that I’m removed the sexual side of a first date the pressure is way off. I don’t have to worry about when to make a move. I don’t have to serve pie for dessert and then right before she takes the first bite, just as the fork is going up to her lips, I grab the utensil gently and remove it from her hands. I place it back on the saucer, move the pie to the coffee table and set it down. Then I attack her mouth with the fury of a thousand Roman Gods.

I’m obviously kidding, as I’ve never successfully pulled off that move. It would go down in the books at the greatest first date kiss of all time.

He said it didn’t look like me and didn’t capture my silliness. Plus, he said it made me look like a bad man. He then went into detail about what kind of criminal I resembled. Without going into specifics let’s just say it wasn’t flattering.

My friend has a point. It really isn’t me. I’m quite aware the photo makes me look tough, rugged and masculine. Hardly anyone would describe me in these terms in real life. In athletic competition I can be fierce and I can defend myself physically if I have to, but that’s about it. I don’t go camping, watch sports, or whistle at broads from a construction site.

I’m also aware that it seems a majority of the people who read this blog are women. The photo of myself is handsome. Ironically, that photo wasn’t even taken of me exclusively. I wouldn’t pose like that for the camera, as my douchiness level has not yet reached that height. But I assume that women will not be visually turned off from that shot. It’s attractive.

Here’s the original photo from whence I clippped.

Image Source – C.B. Lindsey

So you can see, we just took a band “serious” shot. I love this one. And so, I did what every insecure person would do – take the hottest photo of themselves and put it online. It’s American, dammit!

The reality is that you’re more likely to find me laughing that scowling. If you’ve watched my videos or listened to the podcast you’ll see I’m pretty upbeat in person. I laugh a good part of the day, as is my way. But, when I was first deciding on a photo to use a few women told me I looked dashing (well, they didn’t use that word, but I always wanted to be like Cary Grant) so I chose it.

I’m not alone here. Whether were trying to find love on Match or just presenting our physical selves on our blogs or Facebook, most of us aren’t secure enough to put a “warts and all” picture as our avatar. There’s certainly nothing wrong with wanting to look your best. But when my best isn’t reflective of who I actually am as a person then it’s not  terribly  authentic.

Here’s another one from the same shoot that better reflects my personality.

But because in my mind I’m not as fetching in this one, I didn’t use it. I know I sound like a lunatic but, shit, this is a confessional post.  Since I grew up thinking I was ugly the idea of anything that makes me look attractive is still a instant way to get a pleasure rush. I actually don’t think about my looks much at all anymore, as I’ve grown comfortable with my appearance.

Something bugs me about my chosen photo, though. It’s the tough guy image, the not staring directly into the camera, and how much I know it projects something I’m not. I’m not going to change it right now though, as I don’t think I can. Not yet that secure. Before that photo I used a now seven-year old photo of myself where I definitely looked younger than I am. My friends really busted my balls on that one.

So, at least now it’s my real age. And so what if he shiny’ed up my appearance and made me look like I-don’t-need-a-woman-in-my-life-because-I’m-a-loner, man. No filly can tame this stallion! I’m a brooding poet who carries a switchblade.

I used a switchblade once. Not to cut someone who did me wrong, but just to open it like the Sharks did in West Side Story. I was terrified I was going to have the wrong side held and slice open my fingers. It came out and I felt like a killer. It was good. Then I totally freaked out and dropped it and ran as to not stab my toes.

So, I’m not much of a tough guy. That’s okay. At least I have a photo that makes me look like I am.

I already had a car at the time, a Merkur XR4Ti. Even though it was a hand-me-down with 200k miles, it was still pretty cool. Leather seats, sunroof, turbo injection. And stick shift. Every kid’s first car should be stick shift.

Since my parents already had vehicles of their own I now could drive one of two cars to school. The sporty Merkur or the enormous 1981 Cadillac (the year was 1993). Both cars were equally ridiculous, free to me, and nice.

With the exception of the first year of college I’ve always had a car. Each has been handed down or purchased by my parents. I remember when I got married my wife and I went to buy a car. We cut a check for the amount and I was thinking, “I’m thirty-two and this is the first car I’ve purchased.”

When my wife filed for divorce  she wound up with the car. I made do without for a year here in Chicago. I would rent one to get groceries, but otherwise it wasn’t all that difficult. It sucked getting to gigs on a bus. Certainly not very rock and roll. But I was able to make it to work and back either on my bike or the subway.

Then, last fall, my mom was due for a new car. She had been driving her Jaguar for about nine years. She loved that car. It was the first luxury car she had purchased and now needed something bigger. She offered the Jaguar to me. I was thrilled. I would finally be able to go to pet store to pick up food whenever I wanted. Or go do anything!

This may sound strange but I hadn’t even really thought about the car being a “Jaguar.” It was a free car from my parents and I was  desperate  for wheels. My mom had some serious work done to get it ready to be handed over. Until I went to Peoria to pick it up I had forgotten that it was this big-deal luxury car. My ex-wife and I had a Mercury Mariner, but this was really nice.

I was single at the time and a year past the divorce. I realized I would soon be ready to start dating and excited to have a vehicle to drive around. The weird thing is that I had a Jaguar. That was given to me by my parents. That I could never afford. In fact last year I made just about the least amount of money I’ve ever made as a professional. This year alone I had to borrow a few grand from my sister to pay the mortgage.

The thought of picking up a girl on a date and then having to explain that I wasn’t a rich guy was shameful.

Yes, mommy and daddy gave this to me because I’m spoiled. I’m really a screw-up, you see. I can’t take care of myself!

Now, please understand I am grateful to have a car at all. Quite frankly I’m not sure I would have been able to even lease one at the time my cash flow was so low. Yes, they did save my butt. And yes, I am aware that there is no bitching allowed when you are handed a free luxury automobile. I get it.

It’s been a year and it’s still feels weird. First, I didn’t earn the car. Second, I’m not a luxury car guy. Third, I couldn’t afford it even if I had wanted.

My mom has suggested that if it bugs me to trade it in and get something else. It’s not a bad idea except every time I bring the Jaguar home she wants to drive it for nostalgia. She loves this car and has said many times that she’s glad it’s still in the family. I can’t sell it. I don’t even want to. It’s been with us for over ten years.

Now, it’s a 1999 so it’s not exactly new. But it’s pretty much in perfect condition and runs great. My friends all think it’s hilarious my mom gave me her nice car. And that is funny.

I wanted to write about this for a year now but I had a lot of shame about it. I didn’t want to admit that a luxury car that was given to me for free resulted in some discomfort. It seems like something a self-absorbed dick would say. And maybe I am. Trust me, the gratitude is not lost on me. Not for a second.

But every time I drive somebody who doesn’t know me around and they remark that they like my car I immediately say, “My mom gave it to me.” I feel like a fraud otherwise. This is silly because families and friends help out when we struggle. But if mom would have just given me a Honda Civic, I’d be a heck of a lot more comfortable. I’d still be a fraud, but I’d be driving a car that was appropriate to my feeling of self-worth.

So really, this is my mother’s fault. She should have given me a cheaper ride. It’s really all on her. You know what? Now I do feel better!

When I hit junior high, I knew I had a to-do list problem. I simply didn’t keep one. That’s the age where I needed to start writing things down and planning appropriately. As a verified ADDer my memory sucks. I don’t mean in the same way everyone thinks their memory sucks. I’ve had a least a dozen people tell me my memory is the worst they’ve experienced. I wish I could over-exaggerate this fact, but it would not be easy.

In addition to being a spaz that’s constantly not present mentally I’m also a creative-type. This means I’m pretty good at sitting down and thinking stuff up. As the scales are tipped heavily in that favor my abilities to reason, rationality, and use logic are somewhat deficient. I have talked about believing that pasta came from the sea until I was a junior in high school.

Note – If you search for “doesn’t pasta come from the sea” you’ll see that my genius comes up number one in Google.

In college I really tried to plan. I was heavily into self-improvement and studying accelerated learning techniques. I became a speed reader and had a high comprehension at about 1300 words per minute. I learned tricks of master memorizers and could photocopy documents in my head for later retrieval. While all of this is very cool I still had a terrible time putting into action such tasks like doing my laundry in advance of being out of underwear.

Well, I’m thirty-six and I still don’t keep a regular to-do list.

My desire to stay organized is unmatched by common man. I have purchased books, planners, seminars and software to keep me organized. It’s just something that doesn’t come naturally.

When I met my wife she was a fantastic planner and logician. Usually people with medical degrees have to be. There’s such a large amount of studying involved that you become good at planning, remembering, and executing. She didn’t have much creativity, but I had plenty for the both of us. Not only did she remember (she kept lists) what she was to do each day, she had a knack for remembering what I was to do that day as well. It was awesome.

While never a nag she would remind me, “Hey, today why don’t you do x, y, and z?” If you’re like me I highly recommending marrying one of those. Eventually they’ll get fed up and divorce you, but for a few years it’s a great ride.

I am committing to you bozos that I’m going to work this organization thing out. Over the past two years I’ve really stepped up my game. But even I have slip ups. I’m one of those people that will forget to pay his credit card bill on the thirteenth every month. The past two months I was a day late. I called all freaked out to the company and they waved however those charges thing works. Every other bill I have goes out automatically from my bank each month because of my memory.

From time to time I’m going to check in with you to hold myself accountable. For example, I have three contests for you that I haven’t executed because I keep forgetting to write them down and plan them out. To the dude who keeps emailing me photos of his wang, no, that’s not one of the contests. Also, please direct those photos elsewhere. I already have a wang.

Just for poops here’s my latest pocket notebook made by a local company in Chicago. I also ordered a fountain pen so I can seem ultra awesome to on-lookers.

Since I’m always in search of external validation I was excited that someone felt it was important to talk with me. About me.

If you’re not familiar with Chicago, the Tribune is our flagship newspaper and one of the ten biggest in the country. The have real reporters and probably an  ombudsman. They’re the real deal. I announced at work that they sent me a message to interview me. Just the other day an obscene t-shirt manufacturer reached out to me asking to help promote their clothing line. They said to pick any t-shirt I wanted for free. I also had practically yelled this at work. Nobody was impressed.

In my hurry I had neglected to thoroughly read the reporter’s email. All I saw was “request for  interview   and “about meeting your girlfriend through your blog.”

To be more accurate that is what I thought I saw.

When I sat down to re-read the email I realized they wanted to interview me about how I met my ex-wife, not my girlfriend, through a friend. I didn’t even remember writing about how I met my ex-wife. Inviting my current girlfriend Jessica over to  Thanksgiving at my parents’ house for our first date is one of my most popular stories. I get emails about it all the time from readers about it and it’s simply a funny and touching story.

I was confused. While being asked to get interviewed was exciting, talking about how I met my ex-wife (which is a really cute story) felt heavy and sad. We’re still friends and all, but there’s a lot of pain and sadness that surfaces. Remembering our first date brings up a tremendous amount of pleasure which then instantly fast-forwards through the devastation of divorce. It’s a complicated set of feelings.

When I spoke to the reporter at the paper I first pitched the more current story about how I met Jessica. I spent a good five minutes on the details trying to sell it. I hit all the jokes and she laughed the whole way. At the end she thought it might be a good feature for a Valentine’s story, but not a good fit for what she needed with this piece. So, I talked about the ex-wife.

I relayed how I met my ex-wife through a friend. I’ll leave the details out for now should the paper decide to include me in their article. I’ll post a link if it goes to print.

I was asked if the woman that had set us up would be willing to speak to the paper as well. I was sure that she would. This reminded me of another story – the time she tried to set me up with another woman after I was divorced.

Now, this story is newsworthy as the woman was batshit crazy. Our whole relationship had been one phone conversation and she became convinced on the call that I would passing mental illness down to her future kids. I have no diagnosed mental illnesses, by the way.

I had sent the friend that had set me up an email and copied the reporter asking if she would participate in the story. In the email I told her I spoke of the two matchmaker stories – how she introduced me to my now-ex wife, and how she introduced me to a psycho hose beast. When the friend had responded she replied both to me and the writer.

She said it was no problem to speak about how she set me up with Christina but that she didn’t want to talk about the crazy woman as she is a mom at her kid’s school and it could cause friction between them. Ah – makes sense. Then she wrote an unfortunate few sentences. Here’s what she wrote…

 In her defense… you did tell her [crazy broad] that you have self-diagnosed ADD and manic-depression. You didn’t exactly sell your better qualities.

Okay, first of all, I’ve never diagnosed myself with anything except being really kick-ass. Second I have a psychiatrist and a psychologist. Turns out I have a little ADD and that’s it. I take a few meds for it, but it’s no big deal. No bipolar, no depression, not even a touch of the gout. I don’t even get colds, for chrissakes.

Now, I’m sure she was trying to be funny. And while I do appreciate the effort I felt the need to immediately reply to both her and the reporter.

Whoa! No manic-depression!
No depression at all. Just a little ADD and not self-diagnosed. I have a doctor. Ha.

I’m so insecure the idea of having an editor at a newspaper think I was a victim of mental illness was devastating. Here I was attempting to correct any misperceptions. “I’m not crazy! And that whole ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much’ doesn’t apply here!”

Oh, one more thing. When I was being interviewed I asked the writer how she found my site. Was I a big deal around the newsroom down on Michigan Avenue? Out of all the Chicago bloggers was I clearly the funniest? Turns out it was total coincidence that we both live in Chicago. She had just done a Google search looking for stories about being set-up and I showed up number one. I was a little bummed to find out she hadn’t ever read the site before. She promised, however, to keep reading.

All in all a fun day. Even if they don’t print the story I’m thrilled to have been asked. If you haven’t read my confession series one of the  dysfunctional  things I do is interview myself to myself all the time. I only actually get interviewed in real life once in a blue moon and in my mind it’s the greatest honor in the world. In a way, I sort of star-bang myself. I’m sure that’s not healthy. But, hey, someone’s got to.

photo credit: theharv58 via photopin cc

Notice the two conflicting tenses there! Will I resolve the grammar? It’s a nailbiter!

This morning I was listening to a podcast with the host  discussing online piracy. He ended up saying that it’s stealing, plain and simple. Which, of course, is true. And then it occurred to me. I do this. Then I felt sick.

Didn’t help that I found three stale LifeSavers (mystery flavors in a bag promotion they did with no indicator on the wrapper – just in case you were wondering) in a drawer and ate them at 8am.

I’ve written these words before but I can’t think of a more accurate representation of my thieving. Survival is not our most basic instinct. Denial is. This is evidenced by the fact that many people kill themselves thinking they are better off dead. Sure, some people probably are better off dead. But those idiots never kill themselves.

Back to my confession. I was in such denial that I didn’t realize that I had turned into a terrible person. One who steals. I wasn’t raised this way. I’ve never taken something from a store without paying. Actually, that’s not true. I grabbed a velcro wallet when I was with my mom once as a young child (five years old, I think). I walked out with it knowing it was wrong. The wallet was placed in a drawer and I never told anyone. That was the first and last time I ever stole something physical.

One other time my friend let me borrow an air conditioner and I upgraded it to a better one by trading it in. My friend had long moved away and he told me I could have it. But he didn’t say forever. So, without realizing it, technically I did steal. He told me later he never wanted it back anyway. But still.

Oh, and one time I took a box of Tic Tacs from my friend Matt Crane’s house. I totally stole that. I was fifteen.

That’s it.

When file sharing first came out back in the Napster days, I started downloading (stealing) music. I didn’t go crazy with it – just a few songs or albums here and there. I realized it was wrong, and after a year or so of downloading a dozen albums, I stopped. I remember feeling good about not thieving music anymore.

Fast forward eight years. I’ve been clean on music. Then, someone tells me about some documentary that I must see. I looked online for the torrent, just to see if it was available. I found it pretty quick, downloaded it, and watched it. I decided that since it was a documentary, it was somehow okay to appropriate. Denial.

Then, television shows. I don’t have Showtime but want to see Homeland. I no longer have HBO but I watch every Boardwalk Empire. This is stealing. It’s so easy. Because I pay for the crazy fast internet connection, I can download a sixty minute show in three minutes.

Lastly, software. I have never paid for a version of Microsoft Office ever. Yet, I’ve been using Microsoft Office for fifteen years. I have the entire CS6 Adobe Suite. This is a $2,000 product. I don’t use it, but still. I have it. This is really BIG stealing. Took about an hour to download.

I am really ashamed of this behavior. It’s the hardest thing I’ve shared publicly, and I’m really afraid whoever reads it will hate me. But I need to acknowledge it and change. I don’t want to be a guy who screws people over. I don’t do that in other area of my life.

So, tonight I’m removing the software and music on my computer that I have not purchased. I’m going to subscribe to those season pass things for the shows I want to watch. No more downloading movies for free.

Months ago I realized that I was stealing images online for my blog. The laws are very fuzzy about this, and most blogs do it to some extent. I never wanted to get another letter like the one from the German lawyer who demanded I take down a photo of a bratwurst that his client owned. Since then I have only used images allowed to be distributed and I properly cite sources.

I can’t believe I have turned into a thief. I’m not robbing banks or lifting the Hope diamond, but it’s not a victimless crime. Obviously I wouldn’t be cool with people stealing a product of mine.

I sincerely hope that some of you steal ramen packets from the grocery so I won’t feel like the biggest douchebag here. But, I probably am.

photo credit: Alan Cleaver via photopin cc

Being on top of Google was when I started obsessing about traffic. Even though my blog was only a few months old I was receiving an insane amount of visitors. If I slipped to #2 that day my traffic would go down by a third.  Since I had no control over what Google was doing I would feel good if I had a certain amount of traffic – then I would feel awful if I had a day with low numbers.

Once I got booted off Google’s first page, I took to Twitter. Having just surpassed 25k followers, I can tell you that I’m pretty happy with that number. I’d like it to be 250k, but that’s because my ego tells me that more equals better. It actually does equal more opportunity, but I’m grateful for the readers I have today. Seriously – if you tweet me, I almost always tweet back. I so dig you guys.

After all the ups and downs I now rarely look at my traffic or Twitter count. Both are  far beyond my control. I just have to keep my head down and write. That’s what I do best.

However – even though I preach to “ignore pageviews, SEO, Twitter followers, Facebook likes,” I have a secret shame. Yes, I largely ignore all of the above.

BUT I LIVE AND DIE BY THE NUMBER OF COMMENTS I RECEIVE.

Yesterday, for example, I thought I wrote a great post. Only two people commented. Now, it’s Labor Day. People ain’t reading my blog. They’re too busy bitching about having to spend time in the backyard with in-laws and well-done burgers. Also, maybe that content didn’t resonate as well with my readers (but how could it have not? I wrote it!). Or maybe people are just sick of reading my stuff every day and needed a break.

Who knows? Who cares?

I do.

The challenge with blog comments is that you can’t ignore them unless you never visit your own site. They’re right there, front and center. Plus, I like to respond to comments when I can. If there are few (like yesterday), I’m mildly devastated.

I’m going to be speaking at AimingLow’s Non-Con this October and plan to do a few minutes on “ignore number of comments” to bloggers. But I’m a big fraud, because I can’t ignore them.

I haven’t yet been able to view the number and not have an emotional reaction.

Yes, I see that hundreds of  people read the post. But only three commented! I’m a failure!

Look, I’m human and insecure. I need approval. I’m a blogger for chrissakes. I’m working on not associating comments with self-esteem. But I’m not there yet.

Many other bloggers struggle with this, too. There’s a joke – “How do you get a blogger to stop writing? Stop commenting.” Okay, it’s not a good joke and I just made it up. But it’s true enough.

So here’s what I’m  going to ask you to do – continue to comment/not comment as usual.  I need to learn that comments are beyond my control. Like my glue addiction.

Now, if you feel that you need to tell me how sexy insecurity, vulnerability, humor and honesty is – I will absolutely encourage that behavior. I’m the whole package, ladies.

photo credit: wili_hybrid via photo pin cc