In 2012 I challenged myself to write every day for a  year. The first month was trying but after that I became proficient. My mind started searching during the day for topics to write later.  I’d be riding  the subway and an idea would hit and I start typing furiously on my phone. Now I just listen to Howard Stern. At home I write a few Twitter jokes and then to bed.

I’ve noticed over the past few years doing less and less of the things I used to enjoy. I rode my bike to work for years and then abruptly stopped last summer. Getting to the gym is a rare occurrence. I’m not sleeping as much as I should, and I’m wasting more time on television – something I never did before.

Despite playing guitar regularly for over twenty-five years I haven’t been picking it up but once a month.

My girlfriend said not that long ago that, “You have so many opinions and judgements about things. And they’re almost all negative.” She’s not wrong. And to know her, you’d understand  she’s not belittling or criticize. I have become cynical, pessimistic, and downright grumpy.

I’m a very nice person and fun to be around, but behind the scenes I just don’t look forward to much. Each weekend social activity is met with a “I don’t wanna do that!” mind-voice an hour before I’m to leave. I always go, of course, but I don’t want to. Many times these are things I used to enjoy with friends.

Not everything has gone to pot. Career-wise things are great, my relationship is strong, and I’m still taking care of my life in most respects. I wouldn’t say I feel happy in general, however.

But there’s one thing guaranteed to make me feel good – writing. So why did I stop?

I don’t suspect it matters, the reason. Knowing why things are screwed up doesn’t usually change things for me. After five years of therapy I have cognitive understanding of my issues. But what am I actually doing to fix stuff? Not much.

Nothing brings me more joy than to read back the next day what I had written the night before. I’m not Joyce, Faulkner, or even Bombeck. Often times my posts aren’t funny, and this is a humor blog.

But I’m proud of the work for one reason. It’s me sitting down and doing something hard. And nothing creates more pride and well-being than that.

If all I ever did the rest of my life was focus on difficult activities that brought me high levels of pleasure then I’ll have lived fulfilled.

I don’t need internet fame, or blog awards, or even comments underneath these posts. I get enough validation on Twitter if  I’m craving attention. It’s fun when people dig something I write on the blog, but I have no control over the impact or who’s affected.

All I care about is finding the courage to do what’s tough. Hard stuff is hard,  but it’s also the most fulfilling.

I made a commitment to write tonight. I knew I wouldn’t have anything planned or prepared. I knew I would be sitting at a blank screen. I knew it would be scary. It is.

I’m going to stumble a bit creatively until it clicks. That’s the process. I wish I could just start back up at the top of my game, but I’m not at the top of my game. I’m weak. Will have to lift the little weights for now.

I’m going to read this back tomorrow morning as I board the red-line train  heading  south. I’ll cringe  at parts. I’ll like other parts. I’ll get the end and probably read it again.

And then a feeling of warmth will lightly tug at the corners of my mouth. I will smile.

photo credit: gtrwndr87 via photopin cc

Well, in Chicago we don’t call it the subway. It’s the “el” which is short for “elevated train” because it does, in fact, go above ground. The trains also go below ground, too. I’m sticking with “subway,”  although this incident technically happened at an elevated structure.

It wasn’t supposed to be snowing or cold yesterday  morning. 18 ° was projected but 3 ° with strong flurries was what happened. I prepared for the weather with a heavy jacket and gloves. Since I take the dog to work, I covered her in three layers of clothes and then stuffed her into a backpack. Out we went.

In single degree temperatures at 8am standing on the train platform I could sense an overall depression among the commuters. There’s no sun and the cold hurts your skin, eyes, and ears. I boarded the train after a few minutes of waiting.

Immediately after I enter a subway car I lean against the wall partition perpendicular to the door. I take off my backpack and carefully place it between my legs which are shoulder length apart. This protects the dog should anyone accidentally kick her while walking in or out.

I have a policy where I only stand while on the subway. This is for one reason – I don’t want to be the douche who sits when women, old people, and children are standing. Also, I’d have to put the backpack on my lap and that would draw more attention to the fact that I have a dog on a train that explicitly doesn’t allow dogs.

I make sure that because I stand by the door, if it’s crowded when people are getting off or on I exit momentarily to allow for more space. Usually I don’t have to as I’m not blocking the entryway. I make sure people don’t have to strain to get around me.

At the first stop I was in my usual spot and the train was empty. There were plenty of open seats and I was one of three people standing. The entryway was clear when the door opened. A few people lumbered on.

At the tail of the group was a tall man bundled up. Instead of entering the train he stopped short of the door. He looked me in the eye and started yelling. I had my headphones on so I didn’t catch his first few sentences. Not wanting to miss anything further I took off my headphones as fast as I could.

He was angry and shouting something about me blocking the door. I wasn’t blocking the door as evidenced by the group that just entered the train. His face was beet red. A huge laugh welled up in me and I exploded. I laughed right in his face. We were approximately three feet apart.

Stunned, his face went blank for a moment while he processed my reaction. I’m sure he was expecting me to move or get angry or stay silent while he unloaded on me. But I couldn’t take it seriously. While laughing I said to him, “Wow! You’re really fired up!” He kept yelling and was so into it that he let the door close without entering the train. I watched the door shut while he was still bellowing at me. He pounded on the window to keep my attention. Then he flipped me the middle finger.

There’s nothing funnier than receiving the middle finger. I can’t remember the last time it happened. Probably ten years.

I lost it at this point. I started laughing harder and pointed at his middle finger as if to say, “That was a great one! Good joke!” Plus, I knew that the more I laughed the more incensed he’d feel.

Laughing at someone when they’re angry is dehumanizing. You’re invalidating their existence and reducing their passion to novelty. It’s also the reaction least expected and cuts deep into one’s insecurity. I recommend it highly in situations like this.

As the train pulled away I realized that I had single-handedly ruined this person’s morning. My guess is that he’s a bully-type and it’s probably not the first time he mixed it up with someone on the train. I’m sure he goes around all the time yelling at people who stand near the entrance.

I’ve learned to not let crazy people bother me. They can’t help it. It’s just how they are.

But I refuse to give up my power to bullies. You shouldn’t either.

Laugh at them.

photo credit: smaedli via photopin cc

Well, this is not entirely true. I did post a story last week about how it was discovered that my girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend is now seriously dating a woman I used to see ten years prior.

You may have to read that twice. There isn’t an easier way to explain it.

It is an amazing coincidence and a hell of a fun story to put on the blog. I had to take it down, however, as it violated some boundaries. First, the story didn’t have that much to do with me. I was only one of the four players involved. Second, it had not yet been revealed to this guy that I had dated his girlfriend. There is a chance he would have stumbled across this blog and found out. Third, I had accidentally revealed some details about my girlfriend that weren’t fair to her.

I thought of rewriting the story to protect everyone, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it. It had to be unpublished and now it’s in the vault.

About once a year I write something that ultimately has to come down. It’s always for the same reason – I have violated someone’s privacy. And in small ways that I don’t realize at the time. It’s a good reminder to keep this blog focused on the one person willing to violate his privacy – me.

Okay – so what’s up with me? Why haven’t I been writing?

I’m not lazy, so that’s not it.

Simple – I don’t have any ideas!

Recently I’ve been going on a SiriusXM and podcast binge. On the subway to work (45 minutes) I do nothing except stay entertained with talk shows. Then I’m at the office all day where I’m busy making a living. On the way back, more podcasts and satellite radio. Then it’s home where I stay occupied with television and other distractions.

I know that to have ideas I actually must take time out of my day to let ideas emerge. Which means I have to get quiet for a least a little while. This I haven’t done.

While on vacation in Nicaragua I assumed I’d amass a huge number of stories to write about when I got back. But I didn’t. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t bursting with blog posts. The answer is the same as now – I was too busy on holiday to notice what would make for a fun blog entry.

I do have a few stories to tell which should come out shortly. One about how we shared a treehouse open-air cabana with two bats in the middle of a monkey forest overlooking one of the top surf spots in this half of the world. We had a net around our bed to keep out the bugs. It was crazy. And no hot water – this was an expensive hotel, mind you.

Going forward it’s important for me to get back to basics. Namely, starting each day with this one thought – What the hell should I write about when I get home tonight?

Then I actually have to shut up and listen to my brain. Eventually something comes up and I start typing.

Well, I’ve tweeted about the Squatty Potty. It’s changing my life. Hands down, the best $25 I’ve spent. Actually, I didn’t spend the money. I asked my girlfriend for it for Christmas. How’s that for a trusting relationship? We had only been dating around four months at the time. Anyway, I recommend you check it out. Trust me.

I’ve  written several times about how most evenings I have no idea about what’s I’m going to discuss on the blog. Ideas don’t often pop into my head earlier in the day. Most of the time I’m filled with a low-level fear that I won’t be able think of anything good. I let that fear overtake me for a full year in 2013.

Back in 2012 I participated in the Ultimate Blog Challenge. This is where you motivate yourself to write every day for a month. I pushed through the difficulties and ended up writing four hundred days without a miss. Then I hit a wall and needed a break. I got out of the habit and  only published around seventy-five entries over the past year. I’ve re-committed to posting every day this January. We’ll see what happens after that.

The book that really kicked my ass into gear creatively, is The War of Art  by Steven Pressfield.

In the book Pressfield states there are only two types of creatives – amateurs and pros. He is militant in his beliefs that writers need to write as often as possible. That they’re not supposed to strive for perfection – that will just paralyze and halt the ability to create. He posits that you have to be willing to “turn pro” which means you are no longer a sidelines observer, that you take time every day to do your work.

This book was just the reminder I needed that when I sit down and “do my work” I find the greatest reward. I feel satisfied creatively. People have asked me over the years how to find a blog audience. I tell them to write with truth and vulnerability. Everyone wants to connect through shared experience.

But I also tell them one other thing – write for yourself. Here’s why. It’s not because it’s the noble thing to do – there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find readers. The reason to write for yourself is because YOU get to feel good.

Here’s my process. I sit down at the computer. I’m terrified and doubtful that I have anything to say. Most of the time nothing comes for fifteen or twenty minutes. I write anyway. Something begins to take shape. I’m still doubting the entire way until the last sentence. I re-read the piece three times more and remove extraneous words. I still feel unsure. I finish editing, hit publish, and call it a night.

The next morning, on the way to work (I take the subway) I re-read what I had completed the night before. The strangest thing happens – I start to feel good. Not because every sentence is perfect – I’m probably critical of 80% of the content. But I find a few gems in each post and I feel more pride than just about anywhere else in my life. At that point I don’t care if anyone reads it, comments it, or shares it on Facebook. I’m satisfied with what I wrote and nothing can alter that feeling.

From there anyone who reads the post or comments or shares is gravy. The fact that people want to read this stuff is a very gratifying experience. As such I try to connect back to them through comment replies and reading their content should they be a writer.

I encourage you to read Pressfield’s book. It’s not for the faint of heart. He’ll kick you up and down the creative hall. He takes no prisoners. But at the end – he’s right. You get to feel satisfied when you beat your resistance (we all have it) and sit down to do your work. It’s just about the best feeling in the world.

Timestamp – September 6th, 2006.

Back when I had just started dating my future ex-wife I used to take a lot of baths. She had a condo and lived a few blocks from me. To help with the mortgage I acquired a roommate. This made sense as I spent nearly all of my time over at Christina’s place. Within months I had made myself at home (her home).

I would leave work at 5pm, take the subway home to my place, change quickly as to avoid my roommate (who swore he was the inspiration for Turtle on Entourage – I’m not kidding. He really believed this), and walked over to my girlfriend’s condo. It’s not that I disliked the roommate, I just had no need to talk with him. He was enjoying a large condo with all the amenities provided by me for little rent. Plus, I was never there. He had it good. I can’t remember his name, and I’m proud of this. He’s an architect, I think.

Anyway, I would unwind with a soak in her generously sized bathtub. See, I don’t drink or use drugs so I couldn’t just pour myself a highball of whiskey and melt away the stress. I used hot water, instead. It’s not much different, actually. I mean, one’s better for your liver and all, but it’s still an escape. I like escape.

So, one night I was doing what I normally did (take a bath and eat ice cream and read a book simultaneously), and Christina came in to use the bathroom. Now, I have a strict you-better-not-go-to-the-bathroom-in-front-of-me policy, but I’m at her place. With one bathroom. Her rules were different than mine. I don’t think she was cool with squatting over the garbage disposal.

I protested and asked her to hold it. She told me to fuck off. As she sat down mere inches from me she looked my way. What she saw made her laugh. Hard.

She finished her business and ran to the living room. She was back a moment later with our camera. Christina asked me to smile.

I had enough good sense and intelligence to cover up my wang with my arm before the shutter dropped. She took a few more snaps and then left the bathroom. I went back to reading my book.

Christina forwarded the photos to me and later that evening in bed we had a good laugh. I, without putting any deliberation into it, sent them over to a bunch of family and friends. I thought this was hilarious.

What I should have done was examine the photos more closely. I had forgotten a part of my body that was deserved of being covered went uncovered. My balls.

Yep, there they were, captured via digital pixels. Also unsubmerged.

The only reason I know this even happened is that my friend Suzanne sent me a message alerting me to this unintentional gaffe.

Even the more funny, I now had unwittingly sent my nards to probably a dozen people. My girlfriend found no humor in this whatsoever. She was plenty pissed.

That was the last nude photo taken of me. I don’t think I’ll be participating in this kind of photography again, even as a joke. Yes, I did a video blog from the tub last year. I also won’t be doing that, either. I just watched it again – man did that come out creepy!

Suzanne was nice enough to remind me of this whole incident the other day and kept the photos for seven years. Here you go.

• I need to learn how to relax. Any suggestions? @verityXR28

Well, aside from drugs, alcohol, and transcendental meditation, you could try juxtaposition. Do something so devastating the body will punish you with relaxation. Be one of those assholes that runs a marathon barefoot. Eat sixty ounces of steak for breakfast. Calculate how much college will cost for your newborn. These will all cause the body to shut down and you’ll get that rest you need.

• Your first awkward doctor’s office visit @gena_kae
  

I remember getting my first physical where the doctor jiggled my balls. I don’t think it’s common to get testicular lumps at thirteen, but they have to check. Well, for me it was probably the first other set of hands to touch my nards. And man was that hilarious. Not funny in the comedic sense, but funny in that it ticked like a bastard. I busted out laughing like I just heard Rodney Dangerfield do a one liner like, “Dick Van Dyke? He don’t know what he is!”

• blogging etiquette 😉 @claireinecity
  

I don’t really consider myself much of a blogger. Well, now that I think about it, this is ludicrous. I write a blog. I speak at blog conferences. That’s blogging. Okay, here’s what I do. I try to tell the truth even when it’s hard. Don’t pander. You’ll get away with it for awhile but that flame burns quick. I used to write really extreme funny stories which got attention. Then I started talking about my daily life and the struggles of divorce,  loneliness, anger, and riding the subway with my dog. Through vulnerability, humor, and honesty (my credo), I have earned trust and loyalty from readers. Also, pepper in a fart joke every other week. Trust me.

• The dangers of eating an entire bag of Skittles in one sitting @triciaiswriting
  

You know how cats have that thing where you’re petting them and they’re purring like crazy but then you do one stroke too many and they bite the shit out of your hand? It’s called overstimulation aggression. Skittles are kind of like that. Eat seventeen and you’re in heaven. The eighteenth one will punch you in the stomach and double you over. It’s just too much. The bottom line is that you must count your Skittles. Precisely seventeen. I know these things.

• Should I move to Malvern PA? I live in Brooklyn but there is a job there for me. Jean S
  

You shouldn’t move anywhere from Brooklyn. Full stop. Well, actually, unless you get a rent-controlled apartment directly above Magnolia Bakery in the West Village. Malvern has three thousand people. This is not a fit for a city dweller. New York has plenty of jobs. Unless you want to go work in a steel factory, stay put. Although, steel is pretty boss. I loved those strongmen who could bend that shit at the county fair. I feel like those guys all died. Now I’m depressed.

• Spreadable cheeses. Karen P
  

It’s about time I revealed something I’m both ashamed and embarrassed about. No, not ending that last sentence with a preposition, but that cream cheese, the most popular of all spreads, is too strong for my system. I can’t handle it. I throw up. I have no food allergies, but I just can’t swing cream cheese. Give me some of that Laughing Cow stuff and I’ll howl it up with the rest of your hooligans. Some brie? Put that crap on my toothbrush. But cream cheese tightens up my jaw, turns my stomach, and forces me to ruin my Nikes. This is because I vomit on my shoes. Which are Nikes.

There – I’m done. Thanks for helping me exercise my improv muscles. Tomorrow I’ll be back with regularly scheduled nonsense.

Didn’t happen.

Looks like I’ll just continue to trudge along writing about my daily life. You seem to like that best anyway. The good news is that the book is essentially done. The first draft is complete and I need to figure out what Amazon needs to greenlight it. Probably some editing. I decided not to do the whole book in Comic Sans font, by the way. If you’re not familiar this is the most reviled of all the fonts. I still think it would have been funny. But, Times New Roman, you old classic bastard, won over my heart. Actually I think Word just defaults to that and I shrugged – good enough.

I’m back suckas! So get ready for more of the same.

Today, on the bus home from work, I stood next to a woman who was eating sunflower seeds. She looked normal without any sort of obvious mental condition. I mention this because she was clearly batshit crazy. My suspicion is a personality disorder and definitely a narcissist. I came to this conclusion as I watched her crack her sunflower seeds from mouth to hand and then deposit the shells directly to the floor of the bus. It was  magnificent.

I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was a hell of a lot more engaging than the movie  Lincoln, I can tell you that. Sure, she didn’t free the slaves or anything, but watching her teeth and hands  mesmerized  me. Well, she did free the meat from the shells, that’s for sure. I think the inside of a seed is called the meat. In fact I’m pretty sure it’s considered a “meat” in the food group thing. Or maybe I made that up years ago and didn’t remember. I don’t have an editor and I’m not about to fact check. I roll raw, people.

Also, you don’t see a lot of chicks downing sunflower seeds. That market is generally reserved for high school baseball players who don’t have the cajones to try out some RedMan – the chew of champs. It’s like when I see a woman smoking those cigar cigarettes. You know – the thin, small brown ones. I respect the unladylike-ness of it. By the way I should report that I work in kind of a crappy area of town.

Actually, that’s not true. The neighborhood is fine. It’s completely changed over the past decade or so. Just nobody thought to tell the pimp clothing store next to us. I’m not kidding. They sell real pimp clothes. It’s amazing. And awesome.

I will say though that watching someone deposit their shells directly onto a bus floor made me both angry and sad. Angry that some poor schlub will have to clean up this bitch’s mess. Probably the nice driver who said hello to me as I entered. Sad because it’s a subtle reminder of depression. You can’t look at it without getting a little bummed out. After the bus ride I jumped on the subway onto a new car that already had black marker all over the windows where some shithead had tagged it. He was nice enough to write the f-word a few times, too. Depressing.

Now, I never pick up my dog’s poop. This is my thing. My dog is seven pounds and it dries out within a day and who cares, right? I’ve come back after a few days and you can’t even see it anymore. But that’s not the point. I’m depositing shit-shells on the floor and not picking them up.

I think you can sort of judge a person by how much depression they cause in others. If someone saw my dog taking a shit, me congratulating her on being a “good girl” and then simply walking off, they might get upset. So, I’m causing some bad feelings in others and simply because I’m too lazy to pick up what a big dog owner can’t get away with. Now, I’m proud to say that’s pretty much my only vice that affects others.

And, unlike the seed lady I’m ready to change. No more will I let my dog’s poop go uncleaned! I will pick it up. I pledge this to you. Word is bond, yo.

I did buy like 500 biodegradable baggies and I’m ready to rock. Can wait to feel my dog’s first conjure of black magic. If I throw up, I’ll take a photo. And not clean it up.

I asked her if she would do me the honors and she did! Below is the sample I submitted and the results.

Back when I was in my twenties I was so inept at meeting women that I wanted some sort of hook. I had read in a seduction book that women loved getting their handwriting analyzed. I bought a book on the subject and learned about twenty different traits in handwriting styles.

I used it like crazy. I’d go to parties and casually mention that I knew how to analyze handwriting. Women do love it. However, it’s like a magic trick. Fun to watch, but nobody goes home and bangs the magician. I used it as parlor entertainment, plain and simple.

I do believe however, that it does provide legitimate insight into the personality. She produced a full report. I’m only going to show a few excerpts with my own comments.

• Low self-esteem (yes, there is some of that there….you often look in the mirror and blow out of  proportion your shortcomings, rather than concentrating on your good qualities)

Sadly, I focus more on my deficiencies that strengths. Instead of seeing myself as being perfectly imperfect (that sounds like a terrible mug your coworker has in the adjacent cubicle) I tend to focus on what’s missing vs. what’s already there. In order for me to have gratitude of my strengths, I actually need to do this consciously. Does not come naturally.

• Sarcastic
  

Oooh… you’re soooooooooooooooooooo smart to figure that one out, genius! (bad joke, I know)

• A bit of vanity
  

Also true. I just got off the phone with a potential date and she’s a stylist and I was sure to tell her I had a thick, blonde head of hair. It’s all I have, people!

• Your relationship with your father was difficult
  

Growing up I knew my father loved me but I was convinced he didn’t actually like me. He was present but quiet and didn’t know how to engage me. I have since learned that he is my biggest supporter. He calls me almost every day just to see how I’m doing. When I come home to spend the weekend, he’s in heaven. But still, during those formative years, yep, I thought he hated me.

• You have great physical energy, but there are times when your energy is truncated and you feel
  like you can’t get as much done as you’d like to, OR, you’re simply not doing enough things
  that you enjoy physically.
  

Bingo. I am a very energetic person but I often self-soothe by eating too much. Just tonight on the subway home I was feeling a little down. I decided to escape with some fast food. Nothing wrong with that except I bought more than I should have and ended up passing out at 7pm for an hour. Talking with a friend later tonight I was laughing about this. She said, “Didn’t you just do the same thing with chicken wings last week?” I over-soothe to the point of pass-out. Since I don’t drink or use drugs, this is how I run away. I’m okay with it, mostly. We all run from time to time.

• Several strokes indicate you feel like you have too many irons in the fire and your friends may
  soon buy you a shirt that says, “Just say NO”

Between being in a band, working a full-time job, writing each night, doing a podcast, exercising daily, finishing  a book and now dating, I’m pretty busy. I always take on more projects as I’m assuming I’m not doing enough stuff. Maybe I’m not allocating my time or my priorities as well as I could, but my dance card is definitely filling up.

I could go on and on but the bottom line is that handwriting analysis is fun and insightful. Next up is palm reading. If you read palms, I want you to take a look and see what’s in store for me. Hopefully it involves a stint as a multi-millionaire.

Thanks again Theresa!

I’m at that stage of a new exercise and nutrition cycle where the food deficit plus the hard running is almost to difficult to maintain in my body or mind. But it’s time. Even though I biked my ass off this year I ate whatever the hell I wanted. I haven’t moved much since the cold set in. So now I’m in the process of breaking sine bad habits.

I’m currently on the subway racking my brain to bring the funny. I can’t hardly stand much less find the energy to entertain you.

But let’s try anyway.

The last time I went to the grocery store I vowed to pick up one item that is embarrassing and not feel shame about it. I wasn’t sure what it was going to be. I figured I would surprise myself. In the past if I was picking something like four bags of SunChips (one for each flavor) I would quickly put them in my cart and spread them out so that at a cursory glance it didn’t look like I’m mega carb loading on crap.

But the SunChips weren’t on sale. None of the chips were. That’s the bummer in Chicago. Food is never on sale.

That time, however, candy was on special.

First I love how there’s such a thing as “Theatre Candy” – these are the boxes of stuff like Mike & Ike’s, Milk Duds, and Sugar Babies. First, I had a subscription to a high end theatre here. Whip out a box of Reeces Pieces during the first act of a Mamet play and it’ll sound like you’re a new ager playing a rain stick. Everyone around you will be thinking, “Well, I never!” and all that other high class “Screw you!” language. The actors will even fire a look in your direction. Then you have to pretend it wasn’t you but the dude that came in jeans one row in front.

I know the grocery store really means “Movie Candy” but it doesn’t sound as debonair.

Movie candy was 10/$10. That’s a deal, people.

So I chose the worst movie candy of them all. A candy guaranteed to offend and delight equally. I estimate 70% of this world would choose to not have this candy even in the same room as other candy.

Yes, I’m talking about Good & Plenty. I don’t understand why everyone hates these delicious candy treats. There is no middle ground. You either despise them or love them. And despite candy we can all agree sucks (Whoppers, Mounds bars, Popcorn Jelly Bellies) nothing is more heated than a Good & Plenty argument. They’re the brussel sprout of candy.

Well, even though I love them I’m normally ashamed to put them in my basket (I legitimately hide them under the spinach), tonight I walked proud. I put them on the top with an air about me that were to suggest, “No, I’m not going to the opera tonight. I’m heading home to make dinner and this is my dessert. Yes, Good & Plentys are my dessert!”

While this is a relative small victory for my self-esteem, it did have an affect on my mood. I was all bummed out at the beginning of this post. Now I’m ready to take on the world, one white and pink candy at a time.

This post was remarkably silly.

My friend Suzanne and I (that I’ve known since the fifth grade) pick a movie on Friday nights and then both download it. She lives in Dallas, I’m in Chicago. We watch it and send texts to each other throughout the film. I will complete your next thought – yes, right after the movie I go and shave my vagina.

Now, onto other news.

I just figured something out in this, my thirty-sixth year. I’ve written extensively about how, since I don’t drink, I get high off pizza. Then, like when I did drink too much, I’d crash by 11pm. Well, I think the cycle of self-destruction has finally been broken! I figured out that I can still eat a whole frozen pizza if I buy a thin crust. This works perfect as it gives me the manly satisfaction of “beating” the pizza with only two thirds the calories. I’m still sleepy but I’m not passed out in the dog bed in the family room.

I almost rode my bike to work today. It was in the fifties and last night I was really excited to be able to do this as I’ve received no exercise since November. Well, that’s not technically true, but close enough. I even woke up extra early to put on all the warmer clothes, get the suit into the pack- thing, etc. When I looked outside it was raining. Instead of shaking my fist at the sky and yelling at Jesus for his misdoings, I simply put on my suit, strapped the dog in the backpack and stepped outside to walk to the subway. I didn’t use an umbrella as an act of defiance. Jesus must be taught a lesson!

The other day I sold my old laptop on Ebay. Tomorrow it goes into the mail to the new owner. I’m not terribly convinced I can wipe out all the personal data I have on there. I’m pretty sure that person is not going to be happy to see four gigs of Brazilian leg worship videos.

I’m kidding, of course. My life is so boring I had to make up those words as I don’t know if such a thing exists. I’m not a sicko. Really.

I definitely get a little buzz each time I give my cat her nightly Prozac. It’s a transdermal gel that I rub into her ears. The directions recommend that you wear surgical gloves during the application but I only wear one type of gloves and you know this – shower gloves. So, it’s nice to get a tiny contact hit off the goo. My neurotransmitters are thankful.

Lastly, I’m joining the single people of this world once again. Without going into details my girlfriend and I have decided to call it quits for now. This has been ongoing for many months and we’ve been traveling through it together in support. We’re both on the same page, and most of the sadness has been processed. After two consecutive holidays without each other, I’m beginning to see that this isn’t the end of the world. So, I imagine I’ll have a date or two coming shortly. While I rarely talk about people I know, if they’re truly nuts, the stories will wind up here. Can’t wait.

photo credit: numberstumper via photopin cc