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And... I'm back. I know you missed me. You've been looking elsewhere for comfort, but nothing quite fills up the space I left, right? Well, I knew you were hurting, so here I am.
Okay, not really. Though I miss your affectionate heckling, giving up blogging has not been the biggest hole in my life lately (that'd be the four left by those bullets). No, I'm back because the wife insists. She thinks blogging is good for me. I tried to explain to her why I was taking time off. It's hard keeping the tone light when you're relearning how to walk and maintain control of your sphincter at the same time.
But then she says she never saw the blog as something that was supposed to be funny. Thanks, Sweetie. She always saw it as, you know, "therapeutic," which sounds so much like me. I'm widely known to be a guy who regularly participates in bullshit hippie encounter groups or whatever the hell it is those freaks do when they're not listening to some dipshit play the same guitar chord for four hours straight.
Apparently, I've become "too isolated," and the perfect solution is to start blogging again. To "connect" with "friends" and "open up" about my "feelings". Because nothing says well-adjusted quite like telling a group of faceless strangers how big a shit you took that morning. Not quite sure how "therapeutic" that'll be.
So what am I feeling these days? The expansion of my ass as I'm stuck in bed all day. Yep, it's pretty much TV all day here in this sweet setup I've got going on my side of the bed (a tray table AND a pulley system?! I'm living like a king!). It's just me, Marie, and the daytime talk shows. She can't get enough of the problems of white trash America. All of which seem to revolve around the mystery of "who's your daddy?" Seriously, every one of these shows is about how some dumb fifteen-year-old doesn't know which of any number of these dickwit Casanovas she's sleeping with is the father of her kid. I know I can be an oversharer myself at times, but wow -- way to make mommy and daddy proud, Sweetheart.
Since there are only so many sad little baby bastards out there, I've been filling my "Hank time" working on a mineral collection. I know, I know, but I can't let my brother-in-law have all the nerd cred in the family. I'm bidding on a chunk of magnetite right now. Some turd in Missouri thinks he can get it, but I'm gonna smack him down. This guy's got some hard-on for magnetite, and he's been snapping up every bit of it he can find. The greedy dick's already outbid me in five other auctions. C'mon, doucheknuckle, share the wealth. Some of us admire the beauty and scope of nature and the mineral world. Some of us want well-rounded collections. But I guess some of us just want every single crumb of magnetite they can get their sweaty hands on. Is the schmuck building some kinda magnetite fortress? Using it in a plan to take over the world? Fashioning it into the world's creepiest (and most abrasive) love doll?
Probably the last one. I guess it takes all kinds.