So, it’s not even a month into spring and I’m feeling it.
I hate the spring — it’s full of falling shoes, work stress, ugly anniversaries, and the ever-present undertoad looming just around the corner.
Since the vernal equinox, not even one month in, I discovered some schmuck stole my identity and racked up a fuck ton of charges at a shameful big box store I don’t even patronize. And what’s worse, somehow, the schmuck also managed to lease a new car in my name.
Must be nice. Getting a new car doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually, because I just got rear-ended the other day. Not only did I get rear-ended… I got rear ended by a van full of Baptists who called out to Jesus for help and offered to pray the damage away. As of this moment, my back bumper has yet to be “healed.”
With all of that going on, I’m actually kind of okay.
Want proof? This post is proof. As long as I’m still a bit snarky-angry-biting (finding ironic humor in having my identity stolen to buy a new car after being rear-ended by a bunch of Baptists), then it means I’m dealing. It’s when I get quiet that you should be worried.
Granted, I haven’t been on Twitter much, but that’s not cause for alarm. I haven’t been on Twitter in part because I’m busy, and in part because I don’t want to be a rag all over everyone’s feeds. I fucking hate Twitter rags, so I certainly don’t intend to be one. (I’d prefer to keep my self-pity to myself.) Instead of wallowing in self-pity all over Twitter like an emo high school kid, I’m doing it here in my own little corner of the interwebs. I’m not above self-pity, I just like to keep it contained.
Presumably, you’ve come here to read my semi-poetic love sick ramblings, updates about my asshole, and/or all-too-infrequent descriptions of hot sex. Surprise… all you get today are a handful of complaints and one evil undertoad.