MattOnFire

I bought it online. My wife really wanted a new desk. She said, “I’m sick of this old desk. It’s an ugly desk. I want a new desk,” so I bought a new desk.

I bought the desk she wanted. I even got the color she wanted, though I would’ve preferred a black desk. My iMac is silver and black. It would look good on a black desk. She wanted the espresso desk. So I bought the espresso desk. It’s a corner desk.

I bought an espresso desk with a little extra drawer space for files and junk. I also bought a small hutch-type thing. It’s not a tall hutch. It’s a small hutch. The hutch is also espresso and is designed to fit on a corner desk. It cost extra.

I work from home, so really, the new desk is my new desk. I mean, I spend the most time at the desk with my work and my internetting. So I have a bought myself a new desk that should be arriving in 5-7 business days. It’s going in the corner where my bookshelf and record player and antique lamp that used to belong to my aunt Millie are currently. I like where my record player sits. It’s in the corner. Where the new desk is going to go.

There will be rearranging of furniture and measuring and probably a new carpet at some point. And don’t forget the painting. The walls need a good coat or two of a color that will nicely compliment the new espresso corner desk which I bought online and will be delivered in 5-7 business days. I also need a new desk chair.

I like my old desk.

I swear it. Right on the counter next to the microwave. What the hell? Where did it go? A check for $100.02 does not simply get up and walk away. Stupid Verizon refund department FINALLY cuts me a check and I lose it?

It was RIGHT HERE! Let me check under the microwave. Maybe it got stuck under there somehow. Hmmmph. Not under the microwave. Not behind the microwave, either. Maybe it’s in the bowl of matches and paperclips and old iPod headphones and other junk we keep on top of the microwave. Why is this even in the kitchen, anyway? I swear to Christ, we have so much junk around here it’s no wonder I can’t find my goddamn check. Welp, it’s not in there either.

Okay, I distinctly remember getting the mail. Opening the envelope. Looking at the check. Exclaiming, “Sweet! My refund check is finally here! I’m going to use it to buy groceries or gas or dog food or some other stuff.” Then placing the check ON THE COUNTER NEXT TO THE GODFORSAKEN MICROWAVE.

Oh dear lord, I hope it didn’t accidentally get mixed in with the other junk mail and thrown out. QUICK! CHECK THE TRASH! … SHIT, I TOOK THE TRASH OUT LAST NIGHT! … SHIT AGAIN, THE TRASH WAS PICKED UP THIS MORNING!

You know, I bet the wife threw it out. She always gets on these cleaning rampages where she throws away anything that’s not nailed down. That’s it. She threw it out. She ALWAYS throws out my stuff. But this was a check for $100.02! How could she not see that it was a check? She just threw out a cart of groceries! Okay, half a cart of groceries.

I could just see her now, maniacally swiping everything off the counter into the trashcan. Glasses, books, bills, perfectly edible fruit, loose change… AND MY CHECK. Why does she have to throw everything away? She’s the worst. GOD! SHE ALWAYS THROWS MY STUFF AWAY! But where else am I supposed to put it? I put it ON THE COUNTER. That’s where I put things. That’s what a counter is for: TO PUT THINGS ON. Do you know why I put things on the counter? SO I CAN EASILY FIND THEM.

Fine. I give up. The check is lost. Thanks a lot, dear. You just threw out $100.02. It could’ve bought gas for a few weeks or a couple of Blu-ray movies or a nice night out on the town. But no, you go ahead and throw it out. It’s not like we NEED the money or anything. Hey, I’ve got a 20 in my wallet. You wanna set it on fire?

Guess I’ll go check Facebook or something.

UGHH! What is all this crap on my desk? What is this stuff? Bills? Receipts? WHY DOES SHE ALWAYS PUT HER JUNK ON MY DESK? Doesn’t she know that I work over here and I need to keep this area tidy? She even covered up my keyboard with papers and notes and trash and crap… and… FOUND IT!

Now where the hell are my keys?

My college roommate said that once. To a girl. And he was serious. “I like to live dangerously,” he said. Pool cue in hand, leaning on a our makeshift bar. As soon as the sentence left his lips and flowed over his frosty mug of Beast Ice (hey, it was the mid-90′s), the regret punched him in the face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he tried to grab the words by the tail and force them back into his mouth so he could swallow them and hide them in a sea of half-digested pizza and Gatorade. The dude drank a lot of Gatorade.

You know in movies when there is a party going on and something dramatic happens and the music SCREEEEEERRRCCCHHHHes to a halt and everyone stops what they’re doing and stares at the person who is causing the big dramatic disturbance? That totally happened. Except the part about the SCREEEEEERRRCCCCHHHH because, like I said, it was the 90s and we had CDs and CDs don’t make that noise. It just kind of stops playing.

So it gets real quiet, right? I’m lounging on some burn-holed sofa that smells like stale beer and moist gym shorts with the ugly friend of the girl who my roommate was talking to. I was playing wingman that night, just so you know. I would occasionally “take one for the team” so my friends could get laid. We took turns. It’s not like I always played wingman. What I’m trying to say is that I did alright in college, you know, with the ladies. But on this particular night I was MVP of the team because, as I recall, this chick looked like Rocky Dennis.

Anyway, so my roommate sort of blurted out, “I like to live dangerously” in a completely serious manner to a girl that he was trying to hump. I don’t know why he said it or what the conversation was initially about, but he said it. And the way he said it is what made it awkward. You have to understand, it’s not like my roommate was Vin Diesel or Chuck Norris or the Dos Equis guy. He’s just an ordinary schmo. Kind of skinny. Likes sports statistics. Really likes Gatorade. I mean, maybe if he had one of those barbed wire armband tattoos it would’ve worked. But when you take into account the oversized flannel shirt and hair gel and relaxed-fit jeans, you pretty much have to not say things like that if you’ve got any chance at doin’ the humpty dance with a Long Island princess.

So he said what he said and the room turned painfully quiet. The girl was taken aback and bit her top lip in a not-so-sexy manner (because sometimes when girls bite their lips it’s kind of sexy, but not this time. This was more of a “get me outta here” lip bite). Then someone snorted followed by an earth-shattering BWWAAAAHHHAHAHAHAHAH. I realized that it was me who was laughing. The laughter slowly turned from a jovial outburst of amusement to an awkward cough/throat clearing. My roommate hung his head and fumbled to light a cigarette, which looked painfully cumbersome because he didn’t smoke and when people who don’t smoke try to smoke it makes them look extraordinarily ungraceful.

But where is this going? I forget why I wanted to write this story.

Oh, yes!

I titled this blog I Like to Live Dangerously because I was going to write about how I (again) don’t have health insurance and how I sliced the everloving eff out of my finger yesterday while dicing a tomato. But when I typed out that title I couldn’t help but recall when my roommate said that to a girl he was trying to bone and how hilariously uncool it was.

He was a good guy, my roommate. I haven’t seen him in over ten years. I need to visit him one of these days.

FYI: I’m only about 60 pages in.

I’m not what you would call a Sarah Silverman fan, per se. I mean, I like her alright. I think she’s hilarious. But I’ve never seen an episode of her show. I think I saw one of her comedy specials once. And, of course, I’ve seen her on late night talk shows and programs like that. But I don’t follow everything she does. Meh… I’m not a fan of a lot of people because a fan is crazy and obsessive. I’m a fan of Jenny Lewis. Good lord, am I. And how.

Where is this going?

Oh, yeah.

So I began reading The Bedwetter last night before bed. I downloaded it from the iBook store on my iPad, you unrefined pedestrians. I bet you have shelves full of physical paper books. How 2009!

Sorry.

So, I’m lying in bed reading and my wife keeps elbowing me. That’s her polite way of telling me to shut up because she’s trying to sleep. I didn’t realize it, but I was laughing out loud. I mean, really laughing. At a book! Books aren’t supposed to be laugh-out-loud funny. Movies are laugh-out-loud funny. I mean, have you SEEN Hot Tub Time Machine? HILARITY.

I’m telling you nerds, I’m only a fraction of the way into this book and I think it’s the most honest, funny and emotionally jarring memoir (that doesn’t have to do with molestation or abuse) I’ve ever read. Okay, I’ve only read, like, TWO memoirs and they both had to do with molestation and abuse and something about growing up gay in the 1960s. So far, this one has none of that. But there are tremendously funny sentences immediately followed by heartbreakingly sad ones. It’s a hell of a ride, a couple chapters in.

It’s written more like a blog, I think. Maybe that’s why I like it. It feels more spontaneous and from the heart than those combed-over manuscripts that publishers edit and try to make grammatically and punctuationally correct. Punctuationally is not a word. But this is a blog, so…

I’ll read the rest of it in the coming days. I’ll let you know if the next few hundred pages hold up as well as the first 60.

Then again, I was riding the Tylenol PM pony last night as I was reading. I may have a slightly skewed perspective of this book. Come to think of it, I may have dreamed about reading it.

Never mind.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I didn’t get that job I was so excited about in the post from a few weeks ago. After two follow-up phone calls and a few emails and standing outside the office window holding a boombox over my head cranking Survivor’s Burning Heart from the Rocky IV soundtrack, I finally received a rejection letter in the mail. I knew I should’ve went with a cut from the Bloodsport soundtrack. Damn.

But here I am, still plugging away at what I do best – drinking working freelance from home. I’ve got my fingers in a couple of pies and I’ve actually had a legitimate job offer. A real, honest-to-goodness job offer. But there are some extenuating circumstances that are preventing me from making my decision on whether or not I should take it. It’s a tough one… but I need a real job. So… I need to do what’s best for me and the wife, you know? Zzzzz….

SNOOZEFEST! Let’s pick this up a lil’ bit, eh?

I haven’t swam yet this summer. Gone swimming? Swum? I’m going with “gone swimming.” I haven’t gone swimming yet this summer. I’m a little upset about that. Hey, don’t any of you people have a pool or have access to a community pool? Why don’t you invite me over. I’ll bring hamburgers or something. You grill while I swim. Deal? We have a community pool in my neighborhood, but it’s too damn expensive for my blood, what with the mortgage and the COBRA insurance.

Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you all about the COBRA bullshizzz! Remember how the wife was let go by the county school system because of the budget crisis? We’ve been on her medical insurance. And it came in handy, what with the cancer and all. [Oh, I didn't tell you about the cancer? Well too bad, I'm not going to now. It may be the subject of a future post, though. But don't get your hopes up.] So where was I? Oh, yes – COBRA. Let me just throw this number out there:

$866

Per month. For both of us. $866. There simply is no way we can afford that along with everything else. So guess who has two thumbs and is forfeiting his insurance for the next few months? That’s right. We’ll pay for her insurance, because she needs it. But heaven forbid I break my ankle or slip in the shower or run into a tree (either with or without a car) or cut my thumb clean off on a jagged soup can lid.

Who can afford $866 per month? That’s like, 3 iPhones! Or the top model iPad! And I’d rather have a new iPad than some stupid insurance that I MIGHT need. Besides, I’ll just wear a helmet and make sure I watch where I’m going so I don’t fall or something. It shouldn’t be too hard to stay healthy. But all the sitting around and not running into trees will probably make me fat(ter).

But as I said before, I have a job offer. In 90 days from the start of that job, my insurance will kick in. Hopefully, the wife will be teaching full time by then, too. Then we’d just go back on her insurance. It’s only the next few months that will be difficult. We’ll get through it and survive just like we’ve survived everything else.

But seriously, people. Who is going to invite me over for a swim? I apologize in advance for a) moobs and b) blinding farmer’s tan.

“… Oh, and don’t wear a suit or anything like that. We’re pretty casual, and I want you to be comfortable,” she said. “Thanks for taking the time out of your morning to give this phone interview. We’ll see you in here next Friday.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said. “See you then.”

It was 8am. I had spent the previous 12-16 hours running the gamut of emotions about some confusing and frightening medical news we had received. I was not prepared for an early-morning phone interview, but the unexpected call came. And I answered.

I was asked all sorts of pre-interview-esque questions about my most positive qualities, my work ethic, my relationships with former employers, an achievement which I’m most proud of, how I handle stress, etc. I was already under a lot of stress, having not slept well, so I think faking alertness and interest during this phone interview was a pretty good indication of how I handle stress.

I was not ready for this phone call.

But I somehow got through it. And I somehow gave all the right answers. After being asked to visit the office for an in-person interview, I immediately starting daydreaming about what it would be like to work in an office again. 9-6. Packing a lunch. Talking to people. Having clear goals for the day. Meetings. Paperclips. Staplers. Excel spreadsheets. And the benefits! Sweet Baby Jesus, the benefits! With the wife losing her county teaching job in T-minus 3 weeks, we’re about to say goodbye to our health insurance. And we really need medical coverage right now. Not only do I want to get this job, but I need to get this job.

I shaved my gangly beard. I dusted off my interview shoes. The wife ironed a button down shirt for me. My pants weren’t wrinkled, so they got no special treatment. “Casual,” they said. No tie. Rolled up sleeves. I slapped a little gunk in my hair and posed it in the modern I don’t give a damn about my hair style. Oh, and sunglasses. Gotta have the sunglasses. Even though no one would see me while wearing the sunglasses. But still, sunglasses. I looked good. I felt good.

“Hi, Matt! So glad you could make it,” the HR lady said. She walked me through the building. I noticed that everyone seemed happy. In an office. At work. Smiling. Laughing. Wearing jeans. “Let me introduce you to [person]. She’s the [title].”

“Hi, Matt!” potential future boss said. “I’m [person] and I’m the [title]. Now tell me a little about yourself.”

So I did. We chatted for a while. It was pretty casual. Friendly. There was serious job speak with a good mix of casual banter. I was charming and made her laugh with my SFW jokes about the weather and such.

“Let me introduce you to [person],” she said. “He’s the [title] of the entire [something and something] departments.”

“Hi, Matt!” [title] of the entire [something and something] said. “Let me tell you about the job and what you’d be doing.”

So he did. He asked me questions. I asked him questions. Again with the friendly chatter and the weather-related jokes. (Hot enough for ya?) He walked me out of the office and to the front door. I do better with charming the ladies than I do the men, but I think he’d want to have a beer with me. Or at least have me work for him.

“We’ll give you a call Monday or Tuesday,” he said.

Sweet. I figured out later that this was a good thing because the person who interviewed before me didn’t meet with the [title] of the entire [something and something] because she was walked out to the front door by the first lady. So I got one step ahead of her in the process, anyway.

I did the whole follow-up thank you email. I’ve waited patiently all weekend. Now it’s Monday. The job posting has been removed from internet job boards. I guess they found somebody. I hope that somebody is me. I really want to work for this company. I’d make an excellent [title]. And I’m pretty passionate about what they make, sell, market.

Keeping my fingers crossed. I’m waiting for the call. RING, DAMMIT. RING!

A few weeks ago…

Me: What should I wear? I don’t have anything.

Wife: You have lots of clothes.

Me: Yeah, but none of them fit me anymore because I’m fat. Also, they’re all from the late-90′s.

Wife: Wear the suit you bought a few years ago.

Me: But it has pleated pants! I can’t wear pleated pants! They make me look like I’m smuggling a sack of potatoes down there. AND, I can’t even button up the jacket. *Sigh* I’m too damn fat.

Wife: I don’t give a shit. Wear whatever the hell you want. Help me zip this up, will you?

Me: I’ve got an idea. I’ll wear the jacket from the suit I wore in my Uncle’s wedding back in 1998. Or was it 97? Whatever. This jacket kind of fits me because I was almost as fat then as I am now. And I’ll wear the pants that I bought last summer because they sort-of match and they DON’T HAVE STUPID PLEATS.

Wife: No, they don’t match at all.

Me: Well, what do you want me to do? Go out and buy a new suit right now? We only have to be at the wedding in 30 minutes, but let me run out to Franco’s or Men’s Warehouse right quick.

Wife: Fine. Just hurry up and get dressed.

In the car on the way to the wedding:

Me: They really don’t match at all, do they? It’s more noticeable in the sunlight.

Wife: I told you.

Me: Do I look like a Polack? [I apologize for the derogatory term, my Polish friends - it's something that my Mom used to say to me when I tried to dress myself when I was a kid. "You look like a Polack!" Meaning my clothes were all wrinkled and/or didn't fit properly and/or were drastically unmatched. Anyways, I admit I use the term when describing someone who appears disheveled and clueless.]

Wife: You’re fine.

Later – at the wedding reception…

Me, whispering: Do I look like a Polack?

Wife: Shut up, already. You’re fine.

Me: It’s really hot.

Wife: Take off your jacket.

Me: I can’t. This shirt is way too tight and no one should have to look at my backfat.

I can recount the many conversations with my wife that evening that started with, “Do I look like a Polack?” but I’ll spare you. I will, however, tell you that many guests of this wedding were FBI agents, because the dude who got married is an FBI agent. Also, everyone – and I mean EVERYONE at this wedding was skinny, fit and looked damn good in their clothes that were probably purchased well after Seinfeld went off the air.

I have never, ever, ever, ever in my life been more uncomfortable in my own skin than I did that night. The pants were tight. The jacket was tight. My shirt was tight. My tie was too short. My shoes hurt the crap outta my feet. And I was sweating like a fat guy in tight clothes at an outdoor wedding.

We went out dancing afterwards. Dancing. Not so much me, but the wife, her skinny friends and the FBI agents. It was hot in the club, too. God, I was uncomfortable – and I don’t like feeling uncomfortable. Insecure is not a familiar feeling for me, but I felt it big time.

Finally, we left.

Me: I’m fat.

Wife: You’re not fat.

Me: *side eyes* I’m fat and I’m going on a diet. Starting tomorrow. I’m serious.

Wife: *side eyes*

Me: I’m done with this shit. My clothes don’t fit, and I’m as fat as I’ve ever been in my life. This ends today. I’m on a diet. Just let me do it and don’t say anything. Let me have my diet and leave me alone about it. If I don’t want to eat something, don’t say anything. Just let me do my diet and don’t bother me about it. Don’t talk about it. Don’t force me to eat something if I don’t want it.

Wife: Whatever.

. . .

Me: That one FBI dude was tryin’ hard to get with the ladies, eh?

Wife: Yeah, he was a creeper. I can’t even tell you what he said to me!

Me: What did he say?

Wife: No, I can’t tell you. He’s an ass.

Me: I talked to him. He seemed like a nice guy.

Wife: He said I could do better then you.

Me: The diet? It starts tomorrow and leave me alone about it.

So since then, I’ve really cut back on calories and have tried to completely eliminate any food that has sugar added. I’ve been riding my bike. Walking. Even running! Just like I used to do all the time back when I bought all those clothes that no longer fit me.

I hate it. I’m hungry. I’m cranky. And I haven’t lost any noticeable amount of weight. And I’m not sure how long I can keep it up.

And that FBI dude was right. My wife can do A LOT better than me. I’ve got to do what I can to keep her. But GODDAMN I could eat the hell out of a burritopizzatacoburger right about now.

I’ve been a blogger since before blogging was cool. Then I was a blogger when it was cool. Then I was a blogger when it wasn’t cool again. I’m a MeBlogger. I write about me. My life. My pets. My employment. My illnesses. My likes. My dislikes. My Wife. My affinity for really good sandwiches.

Over the years, there have been many versions of my blog. I started out posting inappropriate pictures of me and my friends. From there, I began writing little descriptions of the pictures. Then I morphed into recounting silly experiences about going to the mall or how I got a really bad sunburn. Each version of the blog would eventually die because I got bored or just didn’t have the time nor the inclination to update. I would forget. Things weren’t that exciting. My ADD kicks into overdrive once every 6-8 months.

One year ago, about this time, I felt the urge to get back on the blogwagon. I started a tumblr page to coincide with my new-ish twitter account. I found some funny people to follow from all over the country – not just in Richmond – and reading their posts and admiring their photos allowed me to explore my slightly-creative online persona.

Then we all know what happened. I lost my job. Yes, it was the very job that stifled me so much that I felt the need to reach out, creatively, online. But it was gone and so was the paycheck. The adrenaline of telling my boss to shove it was quickly replaced by weeks – WEEKS – of mental anguish and frustration. (Honestly, I still have nightmares about the whole thing. No joke.) On the first day of my unemployment, April 16th, 2009, I wrote a blog entry about beginning my search for a new job:

Hmmm… doesn’t seem to be much out there.  Is the economy in a recession?  When did that happen?

The blog now had a topic – unemployment and my search for a job. As the entries flowed from my fingertips at an almost-daily pace, I realized that tumblr wasn’t the proper forum for such a depressing topic. I moved the written part of my blog over to WordPress. It make me feel a little more legit. I bit the bullet last fall when I slapped down the credit card and bought the domain and the hosting. Now I’m a big boy with a real blog that actually costs money to run.

I’ve stuck with it for a year, which is pretty good for someone like me, a guy who goes through hobbies like Kirstie Alley goes through diets. Remember my bass guitar? Yeah, it’s upstairs in its case. Haven’t opened it since we moved. Money well spent.

So happy birthday, MattOnFire blog. Let’s hope you can stick around for another year of pointless rambles that don’t reaOH HEY I THINK I’M GOING TO TAKE UP PAINTING WHERE CAN GET A CANVAS STRETCHED LOOK AT MY WATERCOLORS.

Monday, 7pm -

Wife: I have to meet with the principal at 8am tomorrow morning.

Me: About what?

Wife: I don’t know. She just said, “See me at 8.”

Me: I’m sure it’s nothing.

Wife: She’ll probably tell me that I’m losing my job.

Me: No… not yet. Wouldn’t they wait until the summer?

Wife: Yeah, you’re right. Why would she tell me at 8am on a Tuesday in March that I won’t have a job next year?

Me: I know. It’s probably something stupid. You’ll be fine.

Wife: …

Me: Well, whatever happens, you know we’ll get through it.

8:10am Tuesday – Phone conversation -

Me: Hello?

Wife: Yeah, I don’t have a job next year. [cries]

Some backstory – The school district is in all sorts of financial trouble – even though it’s one of the fastest growing school districts in the state. People move to the county just to have the option of sending their children to the schools. A few months back, they announced that they were in a budget crises (having already spent their stimulus money on God-knows-what and who-knows-what-they-do-with-their-lottery-money) and needed to eliminate teachers and increase class size, along with getting rid of certain programs and other staff. Something like 45 million in cuts. Heaven forbid the county raise taxes, because no one wants to PAY for their children to have a decent public education. But let’s not get into that.

So anyway, my wife (and I’m not just saying this because she is my wife), is the most dedicated teacher a child could have. You know the old saying, “first one there in the morning and the last one to leave at night”? That’s her. Truly. For a school that dismisses at 2:50, you’d think she’d be home by 4. Or 5. No. Try 7:00 on most nights, planning the next day’s lesson or cutting little frogs out of construction paper.

She’s a good teacher. No – she’s a great teacher. Don’t take my word for it – take into account the emails she receives from parents who say that their child is lucky to have her. Or the parent who’s child hated school until she was transferred into my wife’s class. Tell me that she isn’t devoted to teaching when you look at our bank records and see the amount of her own money she’s spent in the past year buying books, crayons, glue and other supplies. And even after hearing this news, she is still taking nightly trips to the dollar store or to Michael’s to buy little crafty things for her kids’ activities.

Forget about her being a new teacher with a low salary. That doesn’t count for anything because these cuts are seniority-based. Which I sort-of understand, I guess. But at the same time, wouldn’t it seem more beneficial – at least for the children’s sake – to asses teachers individually? I mean – good teachers should be rewarded, right? Shouldn’t these cuts be performance-based? Is that not in the best interest of the students?

When it comes down to it, my wife is just one statistic out of the HUNDREDS of county faculty and staff who are being let go due to budget cuts. And we’ve already been through a trying unemployment spell with me last year. Oh, and we just bought a house. Remember? But we’re not the ones who are going to suffer the most – it’s the students. They’re losing good, caring, passionate teachers. They’re losing a smaller class size. They’re losing after school programs. They’re losing the best damn kindergarten teacher Chesterfield County was ever lucky enough to have.

This is the obligatory post that you see on a blog every once in a while about how there is nothing to write about because nothing is going on.

This is the paragraph where the writer acknowledges that he just isn’t feeling very funny lately. Maybe it’s because he sits at home on his computer all day. But not in a nerd way. In a work way. Maybe the author of this blog recently picked up another part time job helping a business with their social media marketing, and now spends his “funny time” being serious and contemplating effective strategy and ROI and market logistics and demographics and target audience and how to engage perspective clients and did I catch a “synergy” in there? and other terms that are made up by people who get paid mucho dinero to give seminars to people who do what I try to do.

Perhaps the writer of this blog spends his weekends traveling around to various home decor stores looking for that perfect accent table or area rug. Not because that’s how he chooses to spend his free time, rather that’s how his wife chooses he spend his free time. If he was being honest with you, he would tell you that he secretly enjoys doing these things because he gets to spend time with his wife, outside of the nightly couch-sitting-tv-watching-shut-up-30Rock-is-about-to-start.

He would also tell you that there really isn’t anything funny about area rugs, unless he recounts a witty anecdote about how the dog threw up all over his brand new rug mere hours after bringing it home. But honestly, he doesn’t feel like it because it would require him to make up silly things that the dog “said”. Then he would feel bad for not including the cat in his story, so he’d have to go back and write in a part for the cat. Of course, weeks later, his wife would read it. She would probably say something about how it really didn’t happen that way and she doesn’t understand why he puts his life all over the interweb for everyone to read. It’s kind of stupid and she just doesn’t get it and leave her out of it because she doesn’t want her life broadcast all over the world. Then he’d tell her that no one reads it anyway. She would calm down and forget all about it until, weeks later, she reads another entry about the time she threw up in the back of her friend’s car on the way home from Charlottesville. She’d be really mad about that.

This is the end of the post, where the writer apologizes for not updating as often as he would like. He also promises to make an effort to blog more regularly, but deep down he knows that the post frequency will be less and less, until, eventually, he stops blogging altogether. But months later he will realize that he needs some kind of creative outlet and will begin writing again with such a ferocity that he’ll develop carpel tunnel in his face. People will praise him and nominate him for internet awards, calling it “The Blog of Our Times, Part Deux”. The cycle repeats.

In the final sentence, the author tries to come up with a profound statement that will leave his readers provoked, touched, contemplative, amused. But he can’t. He’s got nothin’.