She's Offended

Do I want to read about you having threesomes, she asked before answering that obviously rhetorical question herself with a screeching no!

Fortunately for her sake, odds are she won't be reading about any threesomes here--at least not in the non-fiction section. But she's right to be offended. She has called my bluff and created this blog for me to write in and then I said I'd have to change the address so she couldn't read it. She raised the valid point that if she didn't read it, then who would and wouldn't I want my friends or family to read it?

Truth is I'd rather develop a loyal audience that finds me after I die. But aside from the poor sap who has to clean out my apartment after I expire and the cats have finished picking at my remains, I don't know how this non-existent audience will find my ramblings in my torn old notebooks wedged in between the Fante, Bukowski and every other hack I've fantasized of emulating. I wanted to be Bukowski, I had everything down except the part about doing the work. Same for everyone else. I used to blame it on my profession. If you sat in front of a computer all day you wouldn't want to come home at night and try to be creative. You'd much rather search the world of adult entertainment looking for escape.

But there comes a time when even that gets boring (not to mention depressing) and perhaps I don't have to wait to have a stroke while having a stroke. So instead I'm going to lay it all out here. Whoever finds this through some weird word search that brings them here when they wanted something completely different (at least that's how I find everything on the web) will hopefully at least browse before dismissing the latest ramblings from some punk who thinks he's terminally unique.

As for my offended friend, I thank her and I'll do my best to offend her more often.