I'm not sure how it happened, but I somehow got sucked into writing for another blog. Which is probably a terrible idea, since I barely write for this one. In fact, I don't even know if you can call it "writing". It's more like transcribing my verbal diarrhea. But whatever.
The site is called Burt Reynolds' Mustache. Hey, don't look at me, I didn't name the damn thing. But I've learned an important lesson since being drafted into service there, and that lesson is this:
Don't respond to emails from strangers when drunk.
Although, I suppose that there are worse things that can happen should one do so. Anyway, apparently a bunch of bloggers write there, and they are each responsible for a specific day of the month. I get the 21st. The 21st of EACH MONTH. What a terrible fucking idea this was. Who knew blogging would be so demanding. I mean, if I didn't crave the artificial attention and wasn't desperate for acknowledgment by a bunch of anonymous lunatics, I might just quit this gig. But alas, I need love and attention. The attention of lying strangers is all that gets me through my day.
Oh God. Oh, dear sweet God, please stop the hurting.
OK, that took a weird turn again. Ignore that last bit.
Anyway. How was everyone's weekend? Good? I don't particularly give a shit, but I'm trying to get you to keep coming back. My weekend was lovely. Friday was the Rebirth Brass Band cruise, which totally rocked and was highlighted by me teaching a sixty-something year old man how to light a joint in high wind on the deck of a boat. What can I say. I read a lot.
A friend from out of town came in Saturday, and we had a good time catching up, drinking and laughing about how insane the Midwest is (he's a college friend).
Today I'm sleepy and can't wait until lunch.
Anyway. Tomorrow is the 21st. You'll find me over here. It's a weird site. With a bunch of weirdos writing for it. Again, I don't know what I'm doing over there. I suppose I'm just lost in a desperate quest for love and affection, wandering through these empty electronic streets, wishing someone would just cuddle with me, or perhaps rub my back a bit.
OK, ignore that part too.
Peace out, playas.
P.S. - Shut it, Red.
Listening to: Tricky - My Evil Is Strong