I just put my new fake tree together.

By accident I had left my old fake tree at the ex-girlfriend’s place. It was a cool fake Christmas tree, too. Tall, but thin. It had style. But when a relationship ends, sometimes it makes sense to just buy a new fake tree. So I did. I decided to go tall and thin again. A sign of respect to the previous tree that was likely covered with dust in her storage unit. The new tree arrived and I assembled it.  The ornaments and lights and even that thing at the top. Treetop hat or whatever. Then I realized I didn’t have a tree-skirt. I must have left that with the tree at her place. I shook my angry fist toward the heavens, but then purchased a swath of canvas online a few minutes later. I had an idea. A great idea? Yeah, actually it was.

This same thing happened to me once back in high school. I had been playing guitar for a few years and one day I was screwing around and all of a sudden I had written the greatest song in the world! I quickly grabbed a pen and wrote down the sequence. Later that day a friend came by and I proudly played him this riff. He said, “That’s Ozzy, dude. Mama I’m Coming Home.” I had written note for note the opening part of that famous Ozzy ballad. Now, I was embarrassed (that I didn’t realized I had ripped off an Ozzy song) and worried (that he thought I was trying to pass off the Ozzy song as my own). Let’s go back to the Christmas tree.

When the canvas swath arrived, I unfolded it and placed the tree in the center of the cloth. I then rolled up the corners and tucked them inward, toward the tree’s trunk. The idea was to make the canvas look like a bag, with the tree growing out of it. I felt pride. This was clever and original. But because my memory is garbage I often double check my “genius” before posting on social media, or bragging via text to loved ones.

It took all of three seconds to find out on Google Images that 7400 people had thought of this concept before me. Turning the base of the Christmas tree into a canvas bag is not a fringe holiday decor idea. There are websites with exclusive tutorials on how to make this on your own for $6 and a trip to Jo-Ann Fabrics. Thank the stars (old expression that needs to come back) that I remembered how dumb I am and double checked. I was milliseconds away from bragging about this achievement far and wide. And I just saved myself from another Ozzy moment.

So, in the end I didn’t invent the original concept of making the tree with a canvas base. I did, however, successfully trademark it last week. Well, not “it”, it. But the name of my new product, TreeBaseSack. Wait, let me show off the official digs. Okay – check this out. TreeBaseSack™. How cool is that? Oh man, I’m gonna be so rich. Who knows one of the Shark Tank producers? Hook me up.

first photo credit: Jonathan Bayer Ozzy via photopin (license)

Nobody is neutral about social media. All of us fall into one of three categories.

• I should do less social media
• I should do more social media
• I’m not on social media

I think we can all agree that the I’m-not-on-social-media-guy is a little too proud to tell everyone that he’s not on social media. My guess is that he doesn’t have any friends and this is an overcompensation for only getting one “Happy birthday!” message on Facebook in 2013. In high school I used to say, “The prom is stupid. I’m not into it!” Which really meant, “No girl will go with me and on the night of the big dance I’m going to play guitar in the basement and cry.” This month Allison Arnone and I speak directly to the social media user and answer their questions directly about how to do more or less of it, but also how to do more or less of it better. Let’s go.

My beloved but crazy sister and her jerk husband actually worked for the Trump campaign. They constantly post pro-Trump material on Facebook.  They believe every lie ever told by the alt right and share it.  I have no problem with blocking my brother in law from my feed, but I hate to block my sister.  She also posts about my nephews and her grandchildren which I don’t want to miss.  I thought I just had to gut it out through the election, but the gloating now is hard to take.  Any suggestions?  Thanks! – Snoozin Susan

D.J. – Believe it or not I actually have a real answer for this before I launch into my normal silliness. Add FB Purity and you can customize the feed so that you only see boring pictures of the kids and not any of the political stuff. But, and here’s another thought – instead of using the plug-in, I recommend out-crazying the crazy. The next time she links to a Breitbart story, write a comment like, “Hmm… this is really interesting. I’m going to think about this.” Then, a week later comment, “I may be comin’ round on this Roe v. Wade thing. Need to pray on it.” Finally, do a, “Okay, I’m sold. I just bought a shitload of guns from Walmart. Big plans ahead. Watch the news.”

Allison – Sorry, just need to yell at D.J. for a minute.  UM, DEEJ, why the HELL didn’t you tell me about this little invention say, 3 months ago?!  It would have saved me from unfriending half the universe and ALSO saved me from the aggravation of having to see pro-Trump statuses in my feed!  

So where was I?  Oh, right — here’s what I’d do, Susan: unfollow your sister (that’s different from unfriending) and also change your settings so if YOU post anything, she doesn’t see it either.  Then you can tell her “I don’t ever go on Facebook anymore but still want to make sure I see pics of the kiddos; can you text or email them directly to me?”  As a person who understands how triggering the Trump stuff is, you need to banish it from your life completely.  THIS IS FOR YOUR MENTAL HEALTH; IT’S IMPORTANT.

How do you handle people asking you to share their stuff on your social media that you would never, ever, in your life want to share? Is there a way to do that besides just ignoring them? – D

D.J. – My deceased friend Bill Flynn taught me that all you ever owe someone is the truth. That being said, I suggest lying. Tell them, “I can’t really get into it as I’m under gag order, but Facebook took away my ability to share posts.” When they write back with, “Really? What happened?” just say you ran into Mark Zuckerberg at a party and you got drunk and were rude and called his wife a tart. Then, follow it up with, “Oh shoot – the damned gag order! Please erase this message. I’m such a ding-dong!”

P.S. I truly hope your last name is Eeznuts.

Allison – Easy.  Start charging them.  “Yes, I know I used to promote your homemade-kitten-sweater business but that was BEFORE I had 1,000 followers on Instagram and now I just can’t do it for free.  Sorry; I got too popular.  Do you think Kylie Jenner promotes those gross digestive tea things OUT OF THE KINDNESS OF HER HEART?  Anyway, I accept Venmo if you still want me to do it.”

I constantly see people responding to celebrities’ tweets with “King,” “Father,” “Queen,” “Mother” etc. Why do they do this? And how do I make them stop? – Jerry

D.J. – I, for one, find it refreshing that some people are remembering that celebrities are, in fact, better than the rest of us. Would I love to be called “Duke” by my Twitter followers? Sure! No wait – let’s do “Prince.” Not like the former singer. Like Prince Charles. That would be so boss. Hold on a sec – maybe “Lord.” You know what? I’m not greedy. Any of them is fine. Except “Baron.” I’m way above Baron, obviously.

Allison – Listen, Jerry, when you see me responding “Queen” on all of Beyonce’s posts and photos I’m just giving Bey the proper respect that a Queen deserves.   And she IS a GODDAMN QUEEN, do you hear me?!??!

Side note: I’ve seen people respond to Kanye West’s tweets with “dad” and it’s SUPER weird.  If I were little North or whatever-the-hell-the-son’s name is I’d be a little annoyed.

Why is “poking” still a thing on FB? And what was it’s original purpose anyway? Like really?! Stop poking me people. I won’t poke back! – Jenn

D.J. – I did a little research and it turns out that poking was invented in 1984, one of the first years of Facebook. The only thing you could do back then was poke! Don’t forget that keyboards weren’t invented until the mid-90s. So your 1984 Facebook Set-Top Electronic Console (remember those?) only had a monitor, an on-off switch, and a big red button. After turning it on and after connecting to the network the only feature was being able to poke your friends. Then, they’d poke back. You’d poke again. They’d double-poke you. (you get the idea.) It was actually a lot of fun. Simpler times.

Allison – Jenn, if you’re still getting “poked” in 2016, block this person immediately because they’re obviously a complete psychopath.  Ugh, it’s D.J., isn’t it?  It’s totally D.J.  

How to shut down FB profile/page – mary ellen

D.J. – Oh, shutting down a Facebook page requires assistance from your local government. Aldermen, in particular, can authorize this action, but you will need to show up at their office and plead your case. There’s a strict two minute limit (they ARE busy running their ward!), but don’t worry, there will be an official timekeeper there to make sure you’re not short-changed. This isn’t required, but I’d go to Kinkos and have some visual aids printed to support your argument. Also, wear a super-tight sweater, because we all know that aldermen dig boobs.

Allison – Um, mom?  How many times do I have to tell you this is not Google?

I have a friend (frenemy?) who is constantly posting passive aggressive things about me online. If I have to cancel plans, she’ll post something like “People are so unreliable” and I KNOW she means me. Should I call it out? It’s super annoying…if you’re mad at me for something just say it to my face and grow up! – Annoyed

D.J. – You got it all wrong. It’s WAY better to have someone talk crap about you behind your back or in a passive aggressive way! Who wants to be called a turd for cancelling plans to their face? Not this guy! But if you’re worried that other friends of hers will figure out that it’s you, a little subterfuge is in order. Just write comment under it – “You’re talking about Sharon, right? She cancels on me, too! #f*cksharon” (Note – this won’t work if either of you is named Sharon.)

Allison – To echo what D.J said, I love the idea of seeing posts like this and KNOWING they’re about you but pretending they aren’t.  “Yikes,” you could say to your pal, “Looks like you’re having some serious friend trouble over there!  Wanna talk about it?  I’m dying to know who that’s about!”  It’ll totally throw them off and make them believe their stupid little passive aggressive game isn’t working.  Of course you’ll be acting passive aggressively back towards them with YOUR little game, but that’s OK because we’re all petty and immature.

The mysterious one liners. Co-worker posts “this is the worst. Don’t ask” – um, ok. Friend from high school “Something big is happening, but can’t say what. Prayers, please” – um, for what???? I feel like saying “can’t you just get your insecurity fix by posting selfies like the rest of us!” – Melissa

D.J. – Another opportunity to have some comment-fun. For the “this is the worst. Don’t ask.” write back with, “Trust me, I already know. It’s beyond the worst. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. Good luck!” For the “prayers, please” write, “PERFECT timing – I just converted to Hindu and they have a God for everything. The thing is I need to know which one to pray to. They get super pissed if you pray the wrong thing to the wrong God. I once asked Shiva for help figuring out my taxes, and Shiva got offended and put all these locusts in my garden. Old school plague stuff. Ruined the tomatoes. Anyway, let me know!”

Allison – When I see the “don’t ask” cryptic posts and statuses, I do exactly what the person is PRETENDING they want, but really don’t: to be ignored and left alone.  The worst thing you can do to someone who is desperately craving attention is to not give it to them.  “EVERYTHING SUCKS AND IS THE WORST AND I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVEEEEE WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME BUT I *DON’T* EVEN WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT” — well, for starters, you do — but I’m not going to ask.  Ever.  Not online, not if and when I see you in person, not ten years from now, NEVER.  Even if it’s secretly killing me inside because I’m dying to know, I will not cave.   You have to ignore these posts, Melissa; I implore you.  It’s the only way to stop this madness.  

Also, if you’re a person who posts things like this?  Grow up.

Everything about social media is on my nerves lately, especially anyone who adds me to groups for shit they’re selling WITHOUT ASKING ME FIRST. How can I make it stop? – J

D.J. – This is a woman-on-woman crime. Men don’t have side businesses where we sell organic eye-cream to our buddies. Not that I couldn’t use a little touch up around the lashes. I mean, hey, who doesn’t want to look more youthful? Wait, did you say it also reverses aging? So, I can get moisturized AND live longer? And it’s only $32 a tube? How do I set up an auto-shipment for every other month? My credit card number is 348096051537313. Is AMEX cool? Because it’s an AMEX. Hey – let’s talk about me selling it, too. Call me Thursday.

Allison – Oh, dear God.  I have so many things to say about this.  Look, I get it.  Some people have side hustles.  Some people don’t work full-time but are still looking for some income — I respect that.  But there’s a difference between:

“Hey, I’m now working for a Skincare company that sells all kinds of products perfect for your acne-prone skin that you probably shouldn’t still have at 34 soooo anyway if you ever want to hear more about it or order anything let me know!”

and:

“You have now been added into a Skincare Facebook group of 50,000 women against your will.  You will be assaulted with a barrage of posts, comments, alerts and notifications and they will NEVER stop.  Good luck trying to find the button to leave this group; it’s hidden in a secret place.  Don’t even bother, you live here now.  BUY ALL THE THINGS.”

There’s gotta be a better way to promote and sell your leggings/eyelashes/zit cream/stick-on-nails and whatever else, but sadly this is a social media epidemic us ladies do have to face.  I say just find the Holy Grail that is the “Leave Group” button IMMEDIATELY and make no mention of it to the ‘friend’ who forced you into that group to begin with.  Eyelash extensions aren’t worth losing a friendship over.  

Or are they?

I’ve never once complained about flying coach.

Let me quickly qualify that before you label me an elitist asshole. I’ve only ever flown first class once, and that was because a boss upgraded my ticket for a short flight to Birmingham. But I’ve been flying since I was a kid, so I’ve shuffled past hundreds of first class passenger over the years. When I say I’ve never complained about sitting in steerage, what I mean is that I’m not one of those people who scowl at the fortunate souls in the first class cabin. I don’t assume they’re horrible people, or that they’re lucky. And while I’m not huge into status, I love the idea of being able to buy a first class ticket. To have the means to plunk down 3k on a flight to Newark if I was so inclined. In fact, when I walk by the first class passengers I often think, “I should work a little harder!” or, “Gotta save better!”

I fly probably 6-8x a year, and never for work. I’m not making quarterly treks to Indonesia, and the total miles flown per annum is not enough to warrant even a thank you text from American Airlines’s CFO. Plus, I don’t have the dough to spend on first class when I’m visiting my sister in Tampa. It’s $2,500 for a 90 min flight, and that doesn’t appear to be a logical use of my savings. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the airport yesterday and my boarding pass read “Premier First Class.” I freaked out because I assumed I must have “butt-dialed” an upgrade when going through security. “Would you like to upgrade to first class for only $1700?” Shit. I checked my credit card – no charges. I even went back to see what I paid for the ticket. $300. Hmm.

I briefly thought about asking the gate agent what “Premier First Class” means, but that’s so not a first-class move. A true first-class flyer doesn’t go, “Why does it say first class on my ticket?” I was afraid they’d go, “Oh no! That was meant for a shiek. We made a mistake. You’re seated in the last row, middle seat, across from the bathroom that smells like doody.” No way I’d forgive myself for queering this deal.

But I didn’t know what “Premier First Class” meant. I assumed it wasn’t regular first class, so I quickly Google’d it while they were about to start boarding. Right as the results came back the gate agent announced, “First class passengers can board.” I threw caution to the wind and got in line. I elbowed past all the other people waiting for their group to be called. This was a full flight and several hundred people were waiting. All eyes were on me as I inched to the ticket person. If I misread this ticket, I’d be shamed in front of the pack. And, that’s exactly what happened. Well, not to me. There was a family in front of me from some country that doesn’t speak English. They misunderstood and got yelled at trying to board during first class boarding. I put my phone on the screener thing and the woman goes, “Go ahead Mr. Paris. They’re waiting for you.”

By the way, you’re only allowed two carry ons, but I always carry three because one is a CPAP. Every time I fly I have to answer the question why I have three carry ons, and because I don’t use a CPAP while flying I often am forced to check the bag. This gate agent witnessed my three bags and smiled at me with a look that suggested, “Only three carry ons? Well, okay – if you want to travel light, that’s your business!”

The best part about first class isn’t the free stuff, or the leg room, or even the private attendant. It’s the camaraderie. Everyone’s instantly your friend, and everyone is smiling. People are joking around, talking with one another, and being hospitable. Don’t have room in your overhead compartment for your messenger bag? No problem – the guy behind you will make room in his bin.

Oh, and the attendants know your name before you come aboard. When I sat down, Ron shuffled over immediately and said, “Hi, Mr. Paris. I’ll be taking care of you. So excited to have you. Hot towel?” I turned down the free glass of champagne since I don’t drink. Oh well – they hooked me up with freshly squeezed orange juice. In a real glass! If you didn’t know this, in first class they like to feed you. I had an egg dish of some sort with a cheese I couldn’t pronounce. It wasn’t bad. The glass of fresh berries was a nice touch. When I got up to use the bathroom the attendant patted me on the back like we were old pals. After six more hot towels we touched down in Phoenix and I had a connecting flight to catch.

Guess what, fuckers? I GOT UPGRADED ON THE SECOND FLIGHT, TOO.

I have to tell you, two days ago I got a random check in the mail from the State for three grand. No explanation of what the check was for or why it was cut. I asked my accountant and she couldn’t figure it out. She told me to keep my mouth shut and cash it immediately. I’m sure I must have overpaid something and it was just a refund, but I’d like to keep thinking I was the recipient of a clerical error like that one Community Chest card in Monopoly. So, to recap, I got an unexpected check from the government and two unexpected first class upgrades in the same week.

But what about my travel back to Chicago? Could I be looking at a first-class upgrade hat trick? Sadly, no. My flight on the way home appears to be regular old coach. I’m in row 26, and nobody with any status chooses that number. I’m going to ask my Hindu friend to educate me on a chant to appease their God of Luxury Travel. I’ll cut out meat and whatever else is required to earn back their favor.

And, oh yeah, I should work a little harder and save more.

How to listen to Bloggers are Weird:

• iTunes or iPhone
• Android

Or just watch it on YouTube if you’re confused on how to fire up a podcast. It’s okay to admit that you’re a dopey luddite.

We have some fun ideas planned – but, first we need your help before we shoot tonight…

Do you have a story of a friend that went crazy?

I know you do. I do. Hell, you might even be the person who went nuts! We want to hear it! Also, we’re going to discuss it on the air.

If you’d like to share, please comment below or  complete this form.

We need your stories by 8pm CST tonight!

Hurry up, for chrissakes!

Here’s a short video!

Would you like to go to BlogHer in San Jose this summer spending three days and nights partying your ass off?

Oh, also you’ll learn how to write better, become more effective at social media, and connect with some truly amazing bloggers that will develop into deep friendships!

Well, normally I’d say, “Screw you all, get your own ticket!” But, I’m feeling generous.

This would have been my third BlogHer in a row and this conference is one of the highlights of my year. I love it. But, alas, I can’t go. A jerk friend of mine decided she’d get married in Florida during that same weekend. What a bitch!

Anyway, I have a full conference pass ticket – this also includes the Pathfinder Day (worth the entire trip just by itself). Altogether, the street value of this dope is $548!

Your only responsibility is to get your fanny there and find a place to stay. I can’t do everything for chrissakes!

Details:

Pathfinder Day – July 24th

BlogHer Conference – July 25th – July 26th

Okay, what do I have to do to win this amazing weekend?

Follow the instructions below – just tweet me, and follow me on Facebook or Twitter. The more activity, the more entries you receive!

Don’t miss out on the biggest blogging event of the year! You’ll have a blast – trust me. Also, if you’re a chick, they usually give our free vibrators. So, bonus.

Have fun – seriously. I can’t tell you how bummed I am that I won’t be there. But, my misery is your ticket to joy! Good luck, foolios!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

This is what my co-worker said tonight as I was driving him home. He’s not a jerk, I promise. We were talking about my blog and he asked how it was going. I told him that this month I’m committed to writing a post every day. He was curious how I find content since I have such a normal, not-hilarious job.

Therein lies this writer’s challenge!

So…

Here goes.

Oh, quick aside – I’ve installed a line of code where Google is now going to tell me what percentage of you are chicks. No idea how this is determined, but hope at least a few guys read this thing. If not, I’m just going to give up and start menstruating.

Oh, another quick aside – I lost three pounds last night. I woke up this morning, stepped on the scale, and rejoiced. I mean, I didn’t literally rejoice as I think that involves throwing your hands high to the heavens and singing. I just grunted out a half smile and scratched my nards. And before you tell me that this was simply water-weight let me tell you something, mister! Sure I peed twice during the night and also right before I got on the scale. That I cannot argue. However, earlier I had commanded my subconscious to ramp up my metabolism while I slept. I wish I was kidding, but I really did. I said this affirmation out loud at least twenty times. I know only a moron would believe you can lose three pounds in one night this way, but I’m going to assume that’s what did it. Because it’s more fun.

Let’s keep going with the asides. Today there was a special on beef jerky at Walgreens. I don’t mean some paltry $.50 off coupon. We’re talking $4.00 off a $7.00 item! That’s pretty impressive in the jerky retail world. I happened to notice it and, hey, it’s not like I’m not going to buy beef jerky that’s 67% off. I purchased two packs. In a weird coincidence I had already consumed jerky that morning. I ran out of yogurt the day before and was scrambling looking for food. I found this high-end jerky my girlfriend had bought me for Christmas. I tore into it and had a jerky breakfast. Then, as mentioned earlier, an awesome jerky lunch. Nearly three packs of jerky were eaten today. I smell like death.

Last aside, I promise. I lied to a friend today. We were talking on the phone and I made a comment that the Squatty Potty was changing my life. As soon as I said it I knew I had made a tactical error. See, I was on the Squatty Potty at the time. She asked, “Are you on the Squatty Potty?” Before I knew it a lie shot out of my mouth. “Well, I never!” I shouted in my best offended-woman-from-the-south voice. I know that it’s gross to do this and most of the time I don’t. But she was in the middle of a story and nature called. Maybe deep down I wanted to get caught. I’ll bring it up with the therapist tomorrow.

Okay, I lied to you. One more aside. I’m not convinced that quinoa is anything other than little pieces of plastic. I put that crap into my chicken soup tonight and let it boil for fifteen minutes. These squiggly things pop out of it after a while and then that was the end of the magic. Not very exciting. Plus, it tasted like gravel. It’s the Grape Nuts of dinner.

So yeah, all in all not a very exciting day, but they can’t all be I-single-handedly-discovered-the-nature-of-God days. I’ll try harder tomorrow to do something cool.

photo credit: theimpulsivebuy via photopin cc

Beth had already been introduced to my mother a few months ago. We were back in Peoria at a friend’s wedding and my mom happened to be in town. My father had driven to Alabama that weekend as my sister had bought him football tickets for his alma matter. My sister lives in NYC and hadn’t been to Chicago or Peoria lately.

Today, my sister flew in to do some work with a Chicago company. My mom happened to be in Chicago too for work. Since my father had yet to meet Beth he drove up from Peoria. The family made dinner plans for the five of us. We settled on a popular seafood and steakhouse in the suburbs.

We arrived and everyone hugged and the remaining introduction were made.

Beth was the first one to get up from the table halfway through an appetizer. As she was making her way to the restroom the family immediately went into judgement mode and collectively decided that they loved her. I knew they would. She’s the best woman I’ve ever dated, and everybody that meets her falls to pieces about her.

I’m fortunate to have a father and mother that are willing to drive three hours out of their way to hang out with my girlfriend. Many families aren’t like that and it’s easy to forget how special and rare that sort of behavior is.

I’ve also met Beth’s family and they’re very fun. She’s one of five (Catholic, naturally) and they all live in the western suburbs of Chicago. Though we’ve been together only five months, I’ve met all eighteen of her immediate family members and she’s met all three of mine. None of it feels forced or rushed.

This post doesn’t have much to say. I’m clogged up with strip steak and king crab leg meat. There’s a sleeping cat on my left arm as a type, and a dog between my legs. I will pass out shortly and wake up tired. But as I start to drift as I write this sentence, I’m content.

I guess I just feel normal. The middle.

A nice dinner with the family. No emotional highs or lows. Just a great time. As it should be, and how it can be.

It’s special to me to have occasional “normal” experiences that flow effortlessly. They’re not as common as I’d like them to be, and it’s important that I acknowledge when they’re happening.

Instead of reaching for a clever resolution or a fart joke, I’m just going to say goodnight.

God, now I really want to tell a fart joke. No, I promised myself!

photo credit: Dawn Ashley via photopin cc

She, naturally, had the mistaken belief that she was not a snorer. I woke up in the middle of that night to what appeared to be a log splitter set to maximum strength chugging away three inches from my face. Since I don’t find snoring repulsive or an impediment to my asleep, I wasn’t bothered. I found myself laughing at a the idea that a beautiful woman was doing something so traditionally non-graceful.

I carefully reached over to the side-table, grabbed my phone and set the voice app to “record.” Forty seconds later I had impressive evidence which was presented to her the next morning.

She laughed, thank God.

We all have our insecurities, but this wasn’t one of hers.

This got me to thinking about my own insecurities.

One of my main fears is that I’m “bad.” That I’m a screw-up. That I’ll destroy everything good in my life. That I’ll hurt others irreparably. That you’ll see what a piece of garbage I am and run away. Then I’ll be all alone and not exist.

Or something like that.

Now, this train of thought is not logical, and there isn’t a lot of real-world evidence to support it. But that’s the things with emotional wounds. They’re invisible and gaping and absolute despite the facts.

So there’s a constant battle between my logical mind (the rational part of me that knows this is nonsense) and the emotional wounded child who feels as if he’s “defective.”

Sadly, emotion trumps reason.

Example – I was on a camping trip with some of my best friends. They constantly bust balls. One of them told a story about how, thirteen years ago, I had been staying at his apartment by myself for a weekend. Apparently I had ordered an adult feature (I don’t remember this but it’s not inconceivable) and left him some money on the kitchen counter with a note. The problem was that this apartment was not owned by my friend. It was the property of a NBA head coach and his wife. Who paid all the bills.

My friend received a call from the owners (who are friends with his family) laughing at him for ordering a skin flick on their account. He had to tell them that his douchebag friend was the culprit.

Now, I didn’t know this story when it was being told at the campsite. I, however, wasn’t able to laugh at myself like my girlfriend and her snoring.

It triggered a “D.J. was a bad boy” wound and I nearly crumbled. While everyone was having a laugh on me, I felt like they had just confirmed I was a piece of shit. They, of course, thought no such thing. It was just a funny story to them.

I was so out of my mind that first I denied the entire event. Truth was that I didn’t remember it, but it probably happened. Then I profusely apologized to my friend. You would have thought I was making amends for wheeling his grandmother into traffic. This overreaction was noticed. My friend assured me that this had been long forgiven and that it wasn’t a big deal in the first place.

Even writing it now I feel terrible. No, it’s not logical. And no, I hadn’t even done anything really wrong. But it feels otherwise. Even now.

I don’t know how to heal these wounds. I believe it has to do with self-forgiveness, but damned if I’m any good at that.

Maybe I can practice now.

Here goes: I forgive myself for ordering Car Wash Babes IV back in 2001. And I’m not bad for wanting to see naked women with sponges – that is a normal and natural desire for a man.

However, maybe I was wrong for sitting on my friend’s couch during this viewing, because, well…

Yep.

Just wanted to say that. Great opener, yes?

Let’s move on.

We all need a council of people that will tell us the truth even when it hurts. If you don’t have such a group, you may want to build that into your life.

(that was the original opener)

No, scratch that. You NEED to build that into your life.

Mine is my pal Karen.

She’s not afraid to tell me when my writing sucks. She’ll call me out when I use a literary trick to get attention. If I tweet out something that’s hacky, I’ll incur her disapproval. She’s a critical and tough broad.

But, you see, I employ her to do hold me accountable to my authenticity.

The bottom line is that I’m not always conscious about what’s in my best interest. I’m not always aware of my true motivations. Sometimes I know exactly what I’m doing when I try to trick the reader using a cute allegory, and I do it anyway.

Karen brings me back to authenticity, which, as I’ve come to believe is the only real goal of life. Brene Brown writes about connection being the most important human quality, but that only through authenticity can connection exist.

Which means that I must get present for my motivations. I need to ask myself before tweeting out something , “Am I really being funny here or am I just looking for attention?” Or, “Is this blog post reflective of what’s really happening a deeper level in my life?”

Most of the time, my authenticity is demonstrated appropriately in this blog. Sure, I fire off a nice crotch joke from time to time, but that’s just because dick humor is awesome. Vagina humor, too. Especially vaginas.

I have in my mental possession a vagina joke so offensive (but hilarious) that is would upset a majority of my readers.

But, I didn’t write the amazing vagina joke. Also, I would be submitting it for shock value. Not authentic.

This blog started out as a bastion for sophomoric humor. And, to be honest, I’m damned good at that stuff. Even a cursory glance through my Top 20 stories will demonstrate that ability. But over time I realized, like Brene Brown teaches, that I really just want to connect. I already know I’m funny.

Could I have the strength to share the pain of divorce or the shame of illegally downloading music or how sometimes I just need a virtual hug? Will that connect with a reader? Does that matter to me? What if nobody comments?

Here’s a current embarrassing truth – I’m close to 100k Twitter followers. In my mind crossing over that threshold means  something important. Of course when I pass that marker nothing will change. The next milestone will be set and I’ll delude myself into thinking that’s the magic number to fulfillment.

After bragging on Facebook and Twitter, I’ll call up Karen. She’ll allow me to boast, congratulate me, and then cut me off. “So, what’s really going on in your life?”

The truth is that I’ve been slacking lately and not writing, yet it’s my favorite daily activity. I’ve become scared of this blog. That I don’t have anything of worth to say. Fear has paralyzed my ability to act. I’m not even sure what I’m afraid of – last year I posted every single day without a miss. This year, barely a hundred published.

So even this post, as all over the place as it is, is a massive step forward. And, I know, that in a few weeks, I’ll be back to my normal self. I will go through highs and lows. From time time I will write shitty pieces. I will brag about accomplishments for attention. I will pepper in dirty one-liners because I’m afraid to publish too serious of a story.

But I will also stand on that precipice where I’m afraid to tell the truth. Most of the time I’ll push through it and lean into the fear. Sometimes I’ll wuss out.

Did you notice that I figured out how to weave in precipice? Full circle, motherfuckers!