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!

• Willow C – cats in drawers

There’s simply nothing cuter. Well, unless the cat confuses the drawer with her litter box as my socks could tell you. Since the infusion of nightly gel Prozac into my cat’s ears she hasn’t peed outside the box in over two months. But if I leave that sock drawer open I’m risking Pandora’s Box. Oh, so once my cat peed on some papers I had on my counter top. Well, they were really important papers and I had to bring them to work the next day. Even now they sit on my desk still stained yellow. And yes, they stink. I’m not kidding.

• Gina S –  What “let’s be friends” really means

I think the meaning of this simple rejection has changed for me over the years. I’ve heard this plenty of times. In my twenties it literally meant, “You sort of suck” and “Get lost.” It suggested anything other than actually becoming friends. Women that I dated didn’t have the sophistication to come up with anything stronger than, “But I’d really like to remain friends!” As I’ve transitioned to the later part of my thirties I’ve found that it really can indicate a desire for friendship. I was dating a woman recently named Chrissy and she whipped out the line. I was unhappy, but then she actually did the work to build an actual friendship. Now we swap dating stories and have a hell of a time just rapping as buddies.

• Karen P –  Ummm…vajazzling. You know it’s Valentine’s day and all…

You’re right KP, it IS Valentine’s Day. All we ever hear about is accessorizing the vagina. Well, I, for one, am dammed tired of it! Let’s get the man parts all dressed up! Enough with you ladies and your business.

Karen suggested the terms Penazzle and Baldazzle.

Let’s dress up the elephant this year. I want to see beads up and down the side. Knit a little hat for the tip. Glitter up the sac. Cover the whole shebang in metallic paint and carry a flashlight to bounce light off of it into your lover’s eyes. If it jogs to the left than let’s feature that by commissioning a small mural on the curved side. There’s really a lot you can do, fellas. Just don’t use lead based paint.

• Rachel P –  Women’s feet

I have to say, I LOVE WOMEN’S FEET. Not in a weird way. I don’t go sniffing or sucking around. Also I will go running for the hills at the first sign of a corn and bunion. The less going on down there the better. But, here’s the thing. Women’s feet are dainty, dry, and don’t stink. They’re usually manicured and not covered in too many veins. It’s good stuff. I’m dating a woman now who claims to have big feet. I wear a size 13-14. I have BIG feet. So even her hobbit-like waffle stompers are tiny in my eyes. Guys, each night do simply three minutes of rubbing on your woman. It’s no big deal and it sends them into ecstasy. I truly believe my wife would have stayed had I spent more time on her toes. Well, that and if I had had surgery to replace my entire personality.

• Emily P – Drunken Karoake

The first time I sang drunken Karoake was in Hays, Kansas (look it up). I was working for the beer company and we did a stop over in this town. They’re famous for a dinosaur museum. Since I’m somewhat of a musician even after seven shots of Ol’ Grandad I still feel the need to sing appropriately. I chose Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown from Jim Croce. The notes are pretty easy to hit and it’s a great song about a white guy singing about two black guys who get into a knife fight. Croce loved writing songs about black dude knife fights. He has several. There was an African American gentleman sitting in the audience and I made a tactical error. There’s a line where Jim sings, “…he got a razor in his shoe.” I pointed down to my shoe to demonstrate the lyric in a sort of interpretative dance. I accidentally pointed directly at the aforementioned gentleman randomly after I touched my shoe. Only I noticed. Truly hilarious.

photo credit: kate à la mode via photopin cc

This will be really short. I don’t normally do “short” (I don’t even respect short people), but this is deserved of visual goodness. The event tonight was a superhero themed party. It was amazing and I can’t begin to tell you of all the hilarious costumes. I can’t because I’ll feel like a dick if I mention one and not all.

So, I’ll just tell you about ours.

My girlfriend Jessica spent three hours sewing in the hotel room to craft the outfit. Last month one of you suggested that we come dressed as HermAphrodite, a combo of the Greek gods Hermes and Aphrodite. I certainly couldn’t come up with anything that brilliant, so we ran with it.

Jessica constructed both a faux-penis and vagina. She, naturally, took the wang. The vagina was so anatomically accurate it even had that stuff that isn’t so pretty coming out of it. It was a big hit, and I owe both the reader and Jessica a huge debt of gratitude.

I can’t find the Facebook post where I took this suggestion, so if it was your idea, please let me know. I want to send you something.

This will be my first speaking event where I address bloggers. I’m grateful to have been asked and over the past few months have tried to create a worthwhile presentation/discussion for attendees. My topic is about taking risks with your writing and trusting in your abilities.

When I was at BlogHer I was in a half-day seminar with thirty women. During one exercise we lined up on spectrum where one end represented “confusion” and the other end “clarity.” We were asked where we believe we are with our blog content. I just assumed everyone was confident about their writing and so I made my way over to the “clarity” side. Well, it was just me and two other women. The rest of the group was at the “confusion” side.

I felt like an egotistical dick. Who was I to feel confident about my crap? But I did feel confident – not egotistical, but comfortable. I’m not a good writer. I know this. I need to learn more about writing. But, I am clear about what I want this blog to be, and I feel damned competent.  My blog has always been about three things – humor, honesty, and vulnerability. While it started out as humor-only site I quickly realized I was not going to be able to hit joke  home runs  every day. I needed to expand my offering if I was to create any regular content. Jokes take too long to perfectly craft.  Over time I started to add in stuff (non-funny, mostly) about my day.

When I started experimenting with non-funny content, I was in the middle of a divorce. I had many feelings, mostly sadness and anger, that were  constant.  I wrote about these experiences. Even though I would pepper each post with jokes, it was primarily a confessional of what was going on in my life.

Growing up I thought if I was funny people would think I was cool. And yes, if you’re funny, people like you. Girls will dig you. But I thought if I shared my pain and sadness and anger, you’d see I was a big screw up and run away. Ironically, making a lot of jokes will almost guarantee that people will not feel close to you. I have best friends with whom I never shared anything  substantive. It took a lot of years to face pain that I’ve avoided myself. By learning how to courageously tell my loved ones about my struggle, they have felt closer to me and we have connected at a deeper level. The same has happened with my readers. So now when I write I always start with one question.

Do I have the courage today to write about what’s really going on?

Then, a second question.

What is really going on?

I realized the other day that I never have written about fear. I rant constantly about anger, sadness and shame, but never about fear. And the truth is that I’m terrified of many things. Scared that my girlfriend will leave me (like my wife did). Scared that I won’t ever make the money I want to make at my day job (or get fired). Scared that my readers will leave over time.

Fear is the hardest thing for me to address. Ironically, fear is a deep, connecting experiences. When I have exposed my shadows, this has done more to increase readership than the dad dick stories I’ve penned. I am insanely proud of those stories, by the way. I do have a mom vagina story that I need to write, too, but it’s not about my mom’s vagina. It’s about vagina advice my mother gave me. Oh yes. It’s good.

When I address everyone this Friday, even though I’m doing twenty-five minutes, I can really sum it up in two sentences.

Write the truth like you wouldn’t notice if your entire audience left. And, if they do leave, keep writing as a new audience will funnel in for the second show.

photo credit: Garrett Crawford via photopin cc

Why? Two reasons. One, I have too much body fat. While I eat pretty healthy, I eat too much. If I don’t regulate my caloric intake, I’m bound to eat everything  that’s awesome in the cupboard. I’m sure it’s a coping mechanism for some sort of sadness or whatever. Like if you don’t write comments at the end of each post. Yep – it’s your fault. If I die from too much food my attorney has been instructed to sue the lot of you. After we in punitive damages my will states that the casket is to be exhumed and your piles of dough are to be dumped in with my rotting corpse. This way, if heaven has a sundries shop, I can buy some stuff.

The second reason I would like to lose some fat is that I have a conference to attend where I’m speaking, and truthfully, I don’t want to feel overweight. My clothes are tight and I’m not happy with my fat face in photos.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently proven that I have a vagina, let’s continue.

So, how to lose the weight? Well, I know a few ways. Since it’s mostly a too-many-calories thing I could burn more calories. I already bike twenty miles.  I’m sure I could push it 20% harder and pass the lame rollerbladers. Other than that, I have to learn how to eat less when I’m anxious.

I love Wint-O-Green and Pep-O-Mint Lifesavers. When I’m writing I’ll grab twenty or so and just chew away during an article. These are not loaded with calories, but the idea of only having one seems  preposterous. I’m a spaz with food. It’s amazing I’m not  severely overweight. Thank God I was blessed with a fast metabolism. Also great hair. Decent chin.

Sorry – got lost in myself there. Yes, I write staring at a mirror so that every now and then I can look up from the computer and smile at myself. “Oh, you!” I say and then wink at myself.

Having a firey metabolism is fine when you’re eating a lot of food. It’s not so great for relationships. I’m constantly freaking out about everything.  Just talk about anything. Today I went for fifteen minutes on how why people at Jessica’s office don’t use the dishwasher and keep cups and plates in the sink. I gave her my theory behind their psychological underpinnings and how it’s a power they wield over the boss. That deep down it’s a “screw you!” to the man.

Anyway, she politely listened for awhile and then was like, “Why are you getting so worked up about this?”  The good news is that I probably burned twenty calories during that monologue. I had stormed around the house ranting.

Okay, I just weighed myself. The weight doesn’t matter. What does is that I’m at 22.9% bodyfat. Not good for a dude.

So, if I come off angry and more self-absorbed than usual in the upcoming weeks it’s because my body and mind are about to turn against me. Today was day one and I already want to get into a random street fight. You know, to burn calories. Also, beating people up will erase all the vagina-ey things said above.

Ooh, if I get into a street fight I need a videographer for posterity. Let’s make sure we pick out a scrawny homeless guy. This has to look good.

But I really didn’t care.  See, I was riding high on Google.  At the time I was always #1 or #2 for terms like “best blog” and “funny blogs.”  I was getting tons of traffic each day and thought I had gamed the system.  Social media be damned!

Note: I am no longer #1 for any major keywords, and will tell that story soon.  It involves murder AND espionage!  Scout’s honor.

Since I was meeting all these big media gurus at the conference, I felt like a total loser when it came to Twitter.  The guy who is number one for “funniest blog” should probably have more than 71 followers.  So I did one of the douchiest things imaginable.  I paid some dude to get me 3k fake Twitter followers.  I think it cost me $10.

This is the equivalent of renting a Mercedes to pick up the dental  hygienist  that you asked out over the root canal.  When you really have a Tercel.

Yes, I did it to try to impress people.  Very lame.  But I did admit it here, because, well, because this blog is about revealing the hard truths.

So, about six weeks ago I wanted to find real people on Twitter and introduce them to my blog.  I started learning and networking like crazy, which was difficult because I didn’t have one single friend that uses Twitter.

I’m proud to say that I hit my ten thousandth follower today.  Now this isn’t a true ten thousand, as I probably still have  a thousand fake Twitter followers (the rest have fallen away).  But, it’s a start.

I know it sounds like I’m bragging, but I’m not really.  I don’t care much for status or anything that screams, “Hey, look at me!”  I goof around about how awesome I am here, but it’s really just for comedy.  I mean, my hair is awesome.  No joke.

You probably found me through Facebook, Google searching, or (most likely) Twitter.  I am so appreciative that you are reading these words.  Please stick around.

To follow me on Twitter, click here.  If you’d like to to “like” me on Facebook, click right here.  Thanks!  You’re a swell gal.  Or fella.  Or maybe you’re one of those weird two gender types with both parts!  I wouldn’t mind asking you a few questions about how that works.  You probably got to pick your own name.  If so, I would have chosen Shelly.  Nobody’s named Shelly anymore and it might as well be you and your vagina-nuts.

Today, on my way to work, someone posted this…

First of all, the George Zimmerman reference – how topical!  I applaud his ability to liken me to someone who shot and killed a teenager based most likely on prejudice.  Actually, now that I’m thinking about it –  if I did hit the cat, that would probably kill her.  Okay, critic, you win this round!

A few things funny about this guy’s post.  First, he clearly has read at least two of my articles.  And since the average commenter reads about ten stories before they comment, odds are that he’s a fan.  Or somebody who hates me and still reads.

Or… somebody who liked me but now hates me.  So many scenarios!  I’m totally fascinated.

Second, he’s actually trying to be helpful.  First he calls me an a-hole, which you learn in debate club is sort of not suggested.  But he does offer practical solutions.  So I applaud his willingness to help.  He’s nutty, but nutty-helpful.

Then, out of nowhere he sent me a pretty inappropriate tweet.  Not only does he follow the blog on Facebook, he follows me on Twitter.  He tweeted something pretty nasty that bordered on obsessive.  I had to block him.

My blogging friends were laughing about how they, too, receive hate mail from goofballs.  The Napkin Dad, Marty Coleman, told me that just yesterday he received some hate mail for his thought that Jesus might have been imperfect.  Oh no he di-int!

But as an epilogue to the story, no I did not beat my cat.  I did watch two episodes of My Cat From Hell and have started to exercise my cat’s prey instinct with DaBird, that dude on the show’s favorite toy.  We’ll see what happens.

Today when I got home, even though she slept with me last night, I felt like I needed to make amends.  I took a nap and she slept on my chest for an hour.  We’re best pals again.

Until she pees on the comforter again.  Then, the little shit is getting kicked square in the cat vagina.

Written entirely at the laundromat while waiting for my comforter to be cleaned, since the washing machine one in my condo isn’t big enough.  There’s lots of scary people here.