While walking Castle Island this morning listening to Adele on my iPod I started to wonder when I became such a fucking faggot. I really didn’t have an answer but I knew I’ve been acting absolute bitch lately… just moaning and groaning about everything and anything. And then this morning, while reading my Pest Management Monthly magazine at the RMV waiting to get a duplicate copy of my license )because I lost mine drinking bottles of Pinot Noir on a cross-country flight), some asshole started flipping out because the dickhead at the desk told him his forms of identification were not acceptable. The guy had every reason to be mad but he has no fucking reason to be wearing Crocs. I wanted to tell this to someone next to me but the lady to my left didn’t speak English and the guy to the right was waiting for his diabetes to kick in on his left foot. I had no outlet for my aggression and/or jokes.
I’ve never been back to a therapist since I sent the last one in SF a note saying I jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and that he could ahead and cash that check for $15 because I didn’t call to cancel 24 hours before. I’m nuts. I get that. We all are to some degree, aren’t we though? The difference is some people just do yoga and some kill people with a pencil from the KENO jar because they took to long in the bathroom at Rolly’s. I fall in the latter. So, all that preamble aside, what does that mean for you? Well, I’m making a comeback to blogging. You need me. You need my rambling thoughts while pounding Miller Lights. You need, my friends, a fucking hero. I’m sure, I’m soon and I’m definitely larger than life….