You Wite A Lot About Relationships, Don't You?

This is true, and I think I've pointed it out before. There's really no denying it. This blog and the one preceding it are really nothing more than steaming piles of low-grade emotional goo, and I'm fine with that. I really am. Perhaps it's a problem that I'm only moved to write by the saccharine. I have, after all, plenty of good stories. There's the one about leading a carload of punks on a chase on foot during a night run in my suburban home town and the one where I poke my left eye with a palm frond, get it patched over, and then catch a cold and wind up shuffling around my friend's apartment, glass of wine in one hand, wadded up Kleenex in the other, making pirate sounds and generally crashing into things on my left hand side (Aaaargh! Thump. *sniff*). Then there's the story about almost freezing to death on a mountain in New Mexico (though that one is, admittedly, a little sappy in its own right) and countless others.

I've got scores of stories I could tell you to disprove the notion that I'm little more than a Hallmark Moments cards writer reject, so why don't I put them here? The fact is, Mac, that this isn't why I blog. I spend 99% of my day in the really real world being a total jackass, so there's got to be someplace for the warm, angst-y stuff to ooze out. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to trot that crap out at the pub and, besides, I'm too busy getting blitzed and starting at some girls tits while I try to recount the details of The Time I Melted My Right Middle Finger on My Bicycle Tire to get into all that. Time and place and modes of expression lend themselves to certain topics and the relationship stuff is what comes out here, on my couch at midnight when I come home from the pub alone. Wouldn't you much rather hear the story of Danny McIrish and I watching the sunset in our wheelchairs at the park from me in person anyway? I tell it so well.