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I Wrote What YOU Told Me – Part VII

Once in awhile I’m at a loss of what to write. So, I ping you lords and lasses. Here are a few that I cherry picked because I had nothing to say about each one. It’s called a challenge, you jerks!

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, they did it behind the neck! Now I’m not as impressed. Yawn…

 

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