It seems that Jesus has decided to make me feel my newly acquired age of 26 by making me sore for almost no good reason. I went bowling, and now my left ass is sore. I don't bowl any differently than most people (most people throw the ball ten feet in the air, turn around and let it carem off their left asscheek, correct?). All I know is, Friday night I went bowling, Saturday morning I woke up and my ass hurt like I spent all night kicking my "handsy" uncle in the balls.
Man, I just used an expression I hate: "All I know is..." Fuck me. If that really was all I knew, I'd be shitting my pants (well, what I called "pants" but was actually a bunch of ketchup packets from Jack in the Box that I put on my legs because I liked that they felt cool on my skin), fucking a bucket of mud instead of typing this. I said "instead of," not "in addition to." I'm allowed to do all three of those things and have a completely average mental capacity.
A couple of entries have gone by sans comments from the faithful readers. What's going on, kids? Do I need to write about more offensive things? I have no problem doing this, but I'm trying to build up somewhat of a more mainstream portfolio of non-fiction writing selections so I don't get replies like the following:
We here at Reader's Digest are not interested in a writer who shares your beliefs on "Whoopi Goldberg," "retards," or "the skin tag on your taint." If you'd like to reapply, you may do so only after six months has passed from the time of this email. If, at that time, you have grown up and learned to write things like a normal, non-sociopathic human being, we'd be more than happy to hear from you again.
Reader's Digest Senior Editor
So, cut me some slack if I don't write a diatribe on how I hate people with arms that are too short for their body and, therefore, should be burned at the stake for being witches.
Interesting thought of the day:
Alcohol is like laxative for panties.