BlogFail

Dear Reader(s),

I think it's high time that I come clean. I probably owe you both an explanation for why this blog has, frankly, sucked even worse recently than usual.

Here's the short of it: in a twist of bittersweet irony, I started dating the someone who made me start this blog, and, as a direct result, the blog is driving itself full speed into the side of a mountain. This someone is thusly responsible for both the birth and death of SomeoneMadeMe. I know, fucked up, right? If I may elaborate...

You see, I'm fully aware that the only thing that is even remotely interesting in this blog is my wacky single guy exploits in New York City. You're not here to find out what I had for lunch today, and I'm not here to tell you. And through the early days of this blog, we had a keen understanding of each other. We had a purpose. We were like two doves flying interweaving patterns across a dusky summer sky. It was beautiful, really. Hell, it was magical.

But, as fate would have it, now that I'm dating someone -- the very someone who made me start this blog -- I can't be in here telling you about all my crazy exploits with trashy and/or drunk women. Well, for a couple of reasons, not the least of which being I no longer even have those crazy exploits, but, even if I were (ahem, and I'm NOT), I couldn't really share them here, since someone reads the ol' blog. You dig?

Now, I could continue blabbing on about mundane crap like my favorite flavor of Dentyne or what I had for lunch or why I hate my boss, or whatever other nonsense people blog about, but that's really not why either of us is here now, is it. Blogs are dumb enough, and this one is barely hanging on by a thread of dumb cut from a spool of idiotic shipped over from the boring district.

So, my three friends, it seems we may be at an impasse. I realize this posting will likely creating a tremendous uproar in the blog community. There will no doubt be marches, and rallys, and candlelight vigils, and the like. Maybe some overturned cars. Rock throwing. Whatever. Hopefully we can persevere and all come through to see the light on the other side as better people...

Until then, signing off, and godspeed...

(BRB!!11)

Nuts

Dear Brazil Nut,
It must be high-noon in a Clint Eastwood flick, because I otherwise can't remember the last time I've felt a part of such an epic standoff as this right here. There you sit in my bowl of mixed nuts every day, surrounded by your much more attractive and tasty friends; there's the delicious cashew, the omnipresent and world renowned peanut, the delectable walnut, the hazelnut, whose flavors I even enjoy in my Dunkin Donuts ™ flavored coffee on occasion, and even the healthy but aromatic almond. And then there's you. All frumpy and sad looking. You're the chubby girl in the wedding party.

I'm not gonna eat you. You're way bigger than the other nuts, and you don't taste any good, oh and YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING BEETLE. This isn't Fear Factor. I don't even want to look at you when you're on my desk alone, and when you're surrounded by so much awesome, you're even that much less interesting to me. So, I pour the bag, and I pick around you. And then there's another of you. And I pick around that. And another. And another. When there's enough of you, I just scoop you up into my palm and toss you in the trash. THAT'S ALL YOU ARE TO ME, BRAZIL NUT, IS TRASH.

When was the last time anyone talked about you? You're not in a Snickers bar. In fact, you're not in any candy at all, are you. You're the unwanted bastard of the nut world, and I feel like the guys packaging these mixed nuts just throw you in there as filler to make an easy buck.

You're fighting a battle you can't win, Brazil Nut. You're not gonna win me over. Please just give it up, and let's both move on.

FerrariCatastrophe

Dear Ferrari Guy for Hire,

Sweet Jesus. The next time I get into a debate about the existence of god with some religious nut, I'm sending them a link to your website, because I'm pretty sure you're proof positive that there is no god. There is no way that any all-seeing, all-knowing being would let this happen. I don't care about all the beauty in the world, and the complexity of our cardiovascular systems, and all that jazz -- if I were God, and I knew you'd be around one day, I'd have nuked the whole thing and started from scratch. Yes, you're that awful.

My short list of nits, in no particular order:

1. Why do you hate shirts?

2. Sammy Hagar must absolutely LOATHE you. Does he send you hate mail? Be honest here.

3. WHAT'S WITH THE FUCKING GUITAR? ARE YOU GONNA PLAY IT WHILE YOU DRIVE ME AROUND? My favorite is the second picture in your gallery, in which you are hovering over the engine of the Ferrari as though you're working on it, and you're shirtless and, well obviously, HOLDING THE FUCKING GUITAR.

4. Does the coke come free with each ride, or is that extra?

5. You do weddings? And ANNIVERSARIES? Is ANYONE seriously taking you up on this? "Honey, so for my present to you this year, I'd like to put you in a red and gold Ferrari with the drummer from Stryper, and he'll be shirtless, and with his guitar, and you guys can do some lines off the dashboard."

6. One of the services you provide is "Special Gift." I'm almost afraid to ask.

7. How much do you HATE LamborghiniGuyForHire. You guys are like the retarded version of Batman and the Joker, except I can't figure out which one of you is the good guy.

8. 1985 called, and it wants to know if it left a gold chain and cross at your apartment last night.

9. "Most photographed man in the Country. Next to the President!!!" LOLZZZ!!11111tnger9

10. You're getting 300 bucks an hour for this? Please do me a favor and send me your customer list, so that I have a handy reference identifying people living on the west coast whose faces I'd like to punch. We're in a recession here, and I can't possibly think of a worse way to spend $300. Or an hour for that matter.

Ferrari Guy for Hire, I'm almost at a loss for words with you. The good news is that you've helped me decide to take on a destructive alcohol habit starting tonight, if only so that something interesting might happen and I don't have to write about iCatastrophes like you anymore.

Writer's Block

Dear ... erm...

:sips beer:


:puffs cigarette:


:sips beer:


:looks at ceiling:


Ugh.