Category: My Own Damn Freud (Page 5 of 6)

I have a complicated relationship with being famous.

For starters, fame is essentially my imaginary girlfriend–or as distinguished nerdlings like to euphemize such situations, my “untested courtship hypothesis”. So to be clear, all my experience in the matter essentially boils down to the thought experiments of an overactive imagination (and dreams¹See also: Stranger Dreams). As I’m wont to quote the Brothers Kratt: “What if?!?”

Case in point: somewhere around my early 20s, I had a friend make the observation that I’m really good at planning ahead…for the most unlikeliest of scenarios. Not so much in the case of more practical matters, like bringing gloves with me on my first [and last] skiing trip. Nah, that’s not how I roll.

Anyways…if I recall correctly, the particular situation that motivated my friend to speak up involved me wringing my hands over the possibility of writing an earworm of a song. This was back in the early days of the Oscillating Fan Club, a loose confederation of me and several of my somewhat musically talented associates. I use the word “loose” here, in the sense that there were never more than two of us in the same room at the same time. And here I was, worried about writing the next Toxic²Spears, Britney. “Toxic.” In the Zone (2003). or The Remedy.³Mraz, Jason. “The Remedy (I Won’t Worry).” Waiting for My Rocket to Come (2002).

I suppose I should break down the logical reasoning that was the source of my consternation. Basically, it starts with me writing songs with the OFC for the fun of it. Now, if one is writing songs, there is a decent chance that one is going to produce one or two that they really like and is personally dear to their heart. It’s much easier if we admit that we all have a favorite amongst our childr–er, I mean “songs”…right? Right.

Also, if one is writing songs, then there is a non-zero chance that one could catch on and enjoy some modest success. And then there is the remote possibility of it becoming wildly, annoyingly popular.⁴…or worse, this could be you: https://www.wnycstudios.org/story/gambit-snap-judgment (listen to the first story, “Life on Easy Street”). You may laugh, but the threat is real. I’ve seen it happen many a time over. A good example that comes to mind is most of the songs by Twenty-One Pilots that you hear on the radio. Now, I have ALOT of thoughts about Twenty-One Pilots, and now is simply not the time to get into all that. I just wanted to build a little bit of tension, such that you, Dear Reader, will be simply bursting with anticipation by the time I get off my ass and write what I estimate to be a 10-part opus.⁵ I shit thee not. I know of at least a good 7 posts I’ll need to write to provide the full context leading up to what will be at least 2 posts explicitly related to Twenty-One Pilots, plus another NSFM post. May the anticipation kill you.⁶(TM)

Back to my train[wreck] of thought: so far, the situation would be manageable, primarily because it is a well known fact that most extremely popular songs are actually pretty basic (dare I say “dumb”?), ergo, if one of my songs were to become outrageously, sickeningly ubiquitous, then clearly it would have already been one for which I hated myself for writing.

But…what if? What if it was that song I loved so much, the one that was a product of my blood, sweat, and tears, the one which contained a small piece of my soul in its melody and piece of my raw heart in the lyrics? What if it was that song that got so much airtime that it would make me want to jam a pencil deep into each ear? What if just the mere opening three notes instantly made me want to vomit every time I heard it? What if my precious, most beloved baby grew up to be a ----- monster?

You get the picture. In my mind, the worst-case scenario would be becoming…universally beloved and famous? Admittedly, it is a little preposterous now that I’m saying it out loud. But, yup, that’s where my mind ended up at after it’s little adventurous jaunt through the Forest of Endless Possibilities.

So. There you have a brief example of one of my many famous thought experiments. Mind you, in this specific instance, I wasn’t actively pursuing those thoughts. I just woke up one day to realize I was extremely worried about what I would do if/when I found myself with a song topping the Billboard Hot 100 charts.

The point of the story is that, while I’ve never technically been famous,⁷…unless you count the taste of real-life fame I experienced in Blog Like Nobody’s Reading. apparently I’ve put a lot of thought into the matter. Which brings me to the topic that motivated me to sit down and write away this fine evening in the first place.

What the hell am I hoping to accomplish by living the dream and starting a blog full of thoughts that are my very own, and mine alone? More specifically, now that I’m solely responsible for my own fate, how am I going to define success?

Ok, first off, going back to my complicated relationship with fame, I forgot to mention that it’s sort of a love/hate thing. I have in mind a separate post in which I expound upon just that topic, and to tease you unnecessarily a little bit I’ll even tell you that it will probably be entitled “The Shy Attention Whore”. But, spoiler alert: when it comes down to it, of-fucking-course, I want to be famous.

Actually, the shy side of me is still fairly strong. For the longest time I didn’t pursue writing in a public arena because I couldn’t decide on a nom de plume, of all things. But the pirate ship has sailed on that idea, hasn’t it? I realized that I talk so ----- much that it wouldn’t take long for people to put the pieces together and unmask my true identity, so I just had to say “Fuck it. It’s not like I’m going to be getting into heaven with a fake ID anyways. Might as well own all my thoughts and words, be what they may…”

The point is, while I want to be famous, I somehow saw it necessary to devote a whole extra interjectatory paragraph to qualify that statement with the idea that I don’t necessarily want to be famous, and if I had the choice, I would be perfectly happy with only my thoughts and writings being famous. And not me. Got it? Good.

And, surprise, surprise, an hour forty into writing this, I find that I have still managed to avoid about which I really want to talk. Just be grateful that it didn’t take you 100 minutes just to read this far.

Now that it’s been established that I sure wouldn’t mind it if somehow this blog were to be successful within moderation,⁸Please, oh please subscribe! And tell everyone you know about the thought-provoking and amusing content you found at www.thepointofthestory.com. Oh, please! what is more interesting to think about is what path I would prefer to take to the top of Blog Rock Star Mountain.

Let me cut to the chase: Simply put, ----- “going viral.”

(Sorry that you had to hear me speak so foully,⁹Christ copulation, I tried for a good 3 minutes to figure out how “fowlly” was not a real word. Turns out, it’s a homophone. Of course it is. Mom, but sometimes a situation has a ----- Fever, and the only medicine is more ----- Cowbell.)

I don’t think I’ve ever viewed going viral as a positive event…even though up until this point in my life I really haven’t done much to put myself in harms way of that happening. Nevertheless, true to form, I’ve devoted an uncalled-for amount of synapses to the matter (see Point #1 above).

Anyways, I suppose if what you really want in life is your 15 minutes/seconds of fame, then knock yourself out.

But is that what you really want? To be a blip on the radar of our collective popular sub-conscious? You do realize that, most likely, you’re going to be eternally memorialized as a 1-dimensional travesty of who you actually were in this lifetime, right? And probably for something that doesn’t even remotely reflect your true self.

If you’re lucky, you won’t be remembered for something, er, regrettable…I’m looking at you, GellieMan.¹⁰https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLjBCqeYYas I mean, I highly doubt (or at least hope) that dude isn’t still writing decent-but-poorly-executed pop-synth and sleeping on Mickey Mouse sheets. Alas, indubitably his epitaph will read “He gave up all his dignity so he could give the world the gift of Aicha.”

Virality cheapens the worth of your soul. Don’t do it kids. The world is just going to chew you up and spit you out before moving onto the next incredibly asinine flavor of the hour. Is that what you want, huh? Do you want to be nothing more than a long-forgotten meme? When you die, do you want to have your memorial service to consist of nothing more than an indefinitely looping gif that represents exactly 6 seconds of your life?

Sure. Whatever. It’s your funeral.¹¹If you’re wondering what literary construct on which I totally just stuck the landing, wait ’til I tell you hear about this dream I had. Oh, wait, I already did…

Anywho…I think it’s safe to come down from my soapbox now…

Oh, and did I mention I don’t want to go viral? Nah, man, I want to go chronic.

I want to be a persistent condition that sticks with you til the day you die.

I want to be an epidemic that can only described as “moderate to severe”.

I want to be the scratch you have to itch just to survive.

I want you to have to seek remediation for the withdrawal you endure on a long-term, recurring basis.¹²…and I want to make more sense with my analogies, as I’m clearly veering from “medical condition” to “medical substance dependency” at this point. It’s way too late in the evening to be safely operating a laptop…

And frankly, I want to go to bed. I’ve inadvertently spent way too much time and effort building up to this point, that I simply haven’t the energy left to expound upon further on the concept of going chronic. Sorry folks, I’m all out of puns and gonna have to close up shop for the night.

So…in conclusion: yes, I am aware that I may be running the risk of being forever known simply as the guy who actually had the oves¹³…because using the term “balls” would just be reinforcing the power The Patriarchy exerts over our society, and you know what? ----- The Patriarchy, AmIRight? Seriously though, why isn’t “having the ovaries/oves” the go-to phrase for describing situations in which one must have incredible courage in the face of adversity? Not enough respects are paid to the half of us who have be a woman living in a man’s world… to stand up and say “Fuck Bob Ross!” But if I have to go viral to infect the masses, so be it. Y’all better call a [medical] doctor.¹⁴https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvAYnFh0Zdo The Point of the Story is your new favorite disease.

Well, at least I hope so…

P.S. I decided to save you the extra click. You’re welcome.

Content created on: 11/12 August 2019 (Sunday/Monday). Edited on 27 September 2019 (Friday).

I love dreams. For most of my life I’ve been able to remember at least some portion of my dreams on any given night. I consider myself fortunate in that regard, and I shower unrequested pity on those out there that never can remember their mid-night shenanigans and escapades.

Ah, dreams. I find them intriguing and fascinating. And at times, disturbing.

Which brings up I philosophical quandary: how responsible is one for the content of their dreams?

Here’s a fun case study: I have a neighborhood friend–for now we’ll call him B.S. Slappy¹I could have gone with a play on his initials, but I’m already calling someone else Jesus Christ. Perhaps we could just call it his Second Coming?–who was a professional musician in a past life. One time when he was over with his family for one of our kids’ birthday parties, he saw my sweet SG Gibson hanging on my wall of guitars, and somehow inferred that I could play it with some degree of confidence. That was when he first started strongly advocating on behalf of the two of us getting together for some jam sessions.

Shortly after that thought first entered the ether of my mind, I had a dream that I had gone over to his house for a playdate for the kids. While there, I stumbled into his makeshift studio where he was noodling away on one of his many six-strings. Delighted to see me, B.S. said “check out what I wrote for us!” and started shredding out a very rocking and very unorthodox riff.

It was like nothing I had ever heard before. But I loved how it took me to a new place I never could have imagined. Such ideas and experiences are my favoritest of all things.

When I woke up I had the chance to reflect on my awesome dream…and it occurred to me “Wait just a tick…he didn’t write that song–it sprung forth from the loins of my mind! I’ve never even heard him play guitar before, so that wasn’t him, it was ME!”

So, if I were somehow musically talented enough to figure out how to play the song from my dream, riddle me this: who should get songwriting credits? Me? It was my brain doing the dreaming, after all. Or my subconscious’ projection of my rock star friend? Maybe, in the process of trying to piece together what I knew of him, along with any poorly-informed perceptions of what type of creative limits he might be capable of stretching, I actually synthesized something completely new and surprising to me. Maybe it is something that I would have never imagined had I never met him…

But guess what? You can chew on that mental cud for awhile, and in the meantime I can get to the dream I really wanted to talk about. Good news for me, I’ve already related the tale digitally, so I don’t have to re-invent the wheel from scratch.

For context, this exchange happened earlier this summer when I was in my “workshopping” phase.²See also: The Olde Timey Wheelchair^,3See also: A Pound Casual Asshat A friend from back in high school was sharing the beautiful gift of “comedic amnesia” with me, and the fact that she knew a major player in this dream–combined with an unintentional trigger phrase–prompted me to tangentially relate to her my vintage 2002 dream. I didn’t even ask for consent…

I’ll let the screenshots do the talking. Sonny Bono,⁴Of course, it’s not her real name. To avoid confusion, though, it’s not her porn star name either… take it away, will ya?

For some reason, it seems a little less bragadocious when a past, forgotten version of yourself makes you laugh. This, my friend, is the gift of comedic amnesia.

Oh ----- She just uttered a trigger phrase…it’s also a spoiler, so I blurred it out. Once you know what it is (see below), come back and fill in the blank. It was a humorous statement in it’s own right.

To help fill in the blanks, I was pretty sure that, in addition to objectively not wanting to marry the Alumna, I very much wanted to marry Tiffany Chestnut instead. Anyways…”and then what happened?”

Honestly, I’ve never been more proud of the wit embedded in this dream. Again, though, do I really get to take credit for it?

I still am searching for an answer to this question–so please, if you know what the right term is, please “leave it in the comments below”. I implore you.

Also, I bet you didn’t think that it would be someone other than me to deliver the money shot. What a twist! Thanks S.B. for really bringing it home.

I’ll leave you with a bonus bit o’ the asinine:

Lastly, in regards to the title.⁵Okay, okay, for you “2A” people out there: yes, I realize that the title is a misnomer, as it was most definitely a rifle that was used in the ceremony.

Content created on: 6 June & 14 August 2019 (Thursday/Wednesday)

By default, WordPress pre-populates a new blog with a singular post entitled “Hello world!” It is meant to be deleted or appropriately edited, but I felt so inspired by these words that I decided to instead subvert this post for my own purposes. Joke’s on them, I suppose.

My experience with “Hello world!” is in the context of trying to pick up a new programming language. If you’re not familiar with it, “Hello world!” is the archetypical first coding project for most any language. It’s the most basic of tasks: getting your computing device to display the simple message “Hello, world!” Also, I’m pretty sure there should be a comma in there, so I added it just for all the English teachers reading at home. But I digress…

Now, some people have told me I have a modestly entertaining sense of humor. Well, right off the bat I’m going to ruin that idealized image of me by telling you a bit about how the sausage is made.

Between you and me, Dear Reader, an insane proportion of my humorous thoughts come from an embarrassingly simple line of code in my core system:

Well, technically that “one simple line” is wrapped up in 47 other lines of code, but hidden in there is Line 22, which is generating potential humorous phrases by simply substituting one or more words with their antonyms. Essentially, I make my living by being a contrarian. That’s it. That’s the secret.

So many things are absurdly funny if you merely pause long enough to consider their opposite. Nearly-free humor, just hanging there, ripe for harvesting. Honestly, I feel like a magician, explaining away all the best magic tricks of the trade, inviting shunning from fellow magicians. I’m just asking to get kicked out of…the Guild of Mildly Humorous Bloggers…? Not really sure who my cohort are here. I wouldn’t be so bold as to claim to be a “Comic”–you know, how comedians refer to themselves when no outsiders are around? But that’s beside the point.

Anyways, apparently such tactics find its way into my own coding work. Recently I came across some old code of mine in which I was clearly supposed to be doing the ol’ “Hello, world!” routine. But of course my stubborn ass refused to be so bougie and write the same overly-cheerful message.

Run my program and what do you get?

Goodbye, cruel world.

Damn that’s dark. Funny, but dark nonetheless.

Now, of course that’s not the end of the story. It’s just merely a waypoint on a longer destination. So, a point of the story, I guess?

At some point, I promise you I’ll put together a few posts explaining how this blog hath sprung forth from the loins of the universe, aka The Story of the Point.¹That’s a Spoonerism right there. Better get used to seeing them in these here parts of the Wild Wild Web. Like any good hero tale, it involves me leaving a job with a regular pay check and risking it all to follow my heart.

Yup, my dream job is being a blogger. Because–and listen up, gentlemen–I know that nothing will get the wife more hot and bothered than a man who knows how to bring home the Bacon Bits.

Anyways, marital intimacy tips aside, the key detail buried in those last two paragraphs is that I’ve had the immense pleasure of leaving my 9-5 job behind, something many dream of doing but only a select few ever get to experience.

The point of the story is, I feel another slight modification to Hello World, and we’ll have the perfect way to kickstart this party:

Goodbye, Corporate World.

Your sorry ass won’t be missed.²Well, this is not 100% true. It’s more like this:https://i0.wp.com/thepointofthestory.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/F_This_Shit.jpg?resize=218%2C300&ssl=1 218w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 150px) 100vw, 150px" />
“Fuck this shit.” … “Just kidding. Its still Thursday and I need these.”

Content created on 27, 28, & 30 July 2019 (Sat, Sun, & Tues)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:

↵1	That’s a Spoonerism right there. Better get used to seeing them in these here parts of the Wild Wild Web.
↵2	Well, this is not 100% true. It’s more like this:https://i0.wp.com/thepointofthestory.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/F_This_Shit.jpg?resize=218%2C300&ssl=1 218w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 150px) 100vw, 150px" /> “Fuck this shit.” … “Just kidding. Its still Thursday and I need these.”

As a toddler, I had my mother rather worried. I was coming up on turning 2 years old, and still really hadn’t talked much. Although I was her fifth rodeo, so to speak, like any good first-world parent she was concerned that I had developmental issues.

Oh, were those fears ever unfounded. I imagine at one point she started wishing that I would begin my verbal journey and put her doubts to rest. And I imagine it wasn’t long after that when she learned the valuable life lesson of “careful what you wish for.”

I started talking all right. And I haven’t stopped since. Once I’m comfortable around someone, I’m like a word fountain with no shut-the-fuck-up faucet handle in sight.

But we all know my verbosity is not on trial here. That’s not the point of the story at all.

The key detail, as recounted by my mother, is that when I actually began speaking, it wasn’t just a broken word here or there; it was full-on complete sentences replete with mostly proper syntax. Apparently, I had been sitting, watching, waiting; learning all the rules before giving the whole verbal communication thing a whirl. I was posing as a harmless observer, all the while plotting my takeover of the English language.

For most of my life, this was a point of pride, often busted out when I felt the need to #HumbleBrag. However, as I grow older and reflect on life more, I realize that there are some definite downsides to this personality trait.

I think the underlying theme is fear of failure (“What if I get this wrong?”), desire for absolute certainty (“I want to get this exactly right”), or a combination of the two. In a sense, it comes down to aversion to risk, and the lack of skill in regards to being able to accurately assess risk well enough and put it in proper perspective. I mean, what’s the worst that could have happened if I didn’t pronounce “ball” exactly right? I’m sure my toddler mind came up with plenty of doomsday scenarios.

Now, I’m sure that this innate reticence has been beneficial at times in my life. But more often than not, leaning into this instinct has held me back more than anything else.

I probably would have picked up Spanish much more quickly had I been like “Ben del Mundo”, happily not giving a single ----- about his butchering of the native tongue of his host country. I would have started wisely investing my money years ago. I would be an accomplished author by now, with 20+ years of experience and multiple published books to my name. I sure the hell would be a better and much more efficient coder. The list goes on.

I’m not here to wallow in my regrets, though I have plenty of plans for that in future musings. No, this is really about identifying obstacles that hold you back from being a better version of one’s self, owning them, and then managing and mitigating them with mindful intention.

I had to wrassle with several mental and emotional barriers before I could even begin to realistic consider the prospect of exposing myself publicly on a regular basis (aka “blogging”, you ----- perv). In due time, I intend to regale you with my in-depth analysis of all of them. But for now I promise to stay on point and only unpack one of them here.

Critical to making this blog a reality, I had to make peace with the fact that Mistakes Will Be Made. If I don’t dive right into something due to worries about figuring every little detail out beforehand, I will never get started in the first place. Sure, I won’t have bonehead mistakes hanging around my neck, but I won’t have any of the awesome benefits of the endeavor to enjoy either.

This personal life lesson has been several years in the making, but it really has been roughly the last two years that I’ve been able to take advantage of this self-realization. I pussy-footed around with travel hacking for a year or so before finally jumping in head-first. Sure, mistakes were indeed made, maybe missing out on $1k of potential benefits. But I wouldn’t say they even came close to rising to the level of regret. And it has definitely paid off to the tune of upwards of $10k, so yeah, it was definitely worth it.

Another example is 3D printing. I’ve had some passive interest in the field for at least 6 years. Yet, despite having access to 50+ printers free of charge for 4 1/2 years in my recent full-time employment, it wasn’t until I realized I might be losing the opportunity that I started taking advantage of it. It helped to focus on just printing anything instead of getting caught up in the details. Not having a perfect product in mind allowed me to avoid obsessing over how imperfect my creations were.

Ultimately, the important thing in both cases is that something was being done. After all, we can’t learn from mistakes we never make.

And really, there is a point to this story here. In fact, it might just be the point of The Point of The Story.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I have many regrets, and many, many, more embarassing moments. And I’m wise enough to know that I have many more to come…hopefully with a minimal number of regrets.

And I have a penchant to talk in overly-detailed prose. Or so I’ve been told.

So how is this the point? I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it. I swear. Sheesh, leave me alone. You seriously didn’t come here expecting to find case studies in conciseness and brevity, did you? Cuz you in the wrong place if you did. You are free to leave at any time; my feelings won’t be hurt.

…but I digress.

All that to say, I’ve struggled much of my life with being self-conscious of the thought that I just might be a mistake-prone Chatty Cathy. A friend once described a mutual friend as “the strong, silent type.” But when he continued musing, considering the opposite personality, i.e. “the weak, gabby type,” I had a moment where I was like “wait a minute…is he referring to me?!?” For the record he wasn’t, but it was a thought that was traumatizing to my self-image nonetheless.

You know what, though? It’s never too late to own thy shit. I’m leaning into what assets I have in abundance, bougie self-respect be damned.

I’m done waiting around forever for my idealized self to materialize. These chains hanging heavy round my neck, weighing me down? Aw, shiiiiit. They made of gold. It’s time to cash in on these god-given gifts.

Sometimes the best opportunities arise from simple reframing of a situation. And I’m so happy I’ve recalibrated my perspective, and I hope at some point it can make you a happier person, too.

Fucking up and shamelessly talking about it at great lengths? That’s not a bug, that’s a feature.

Oh, yes, mistakes have been made, and will continue to be made. They might even be sought out on occassion. But I promise you this, Dear Reader: I will tell you aaaaaaaall about them.

It is up to you what you do with this information.

Be amused. Be inspired. Be like me. Don’t be like me. Be entertained. Be slightly shocked out of your sensibilities. Be introspective, armed with a new perspective.

And above all else, consider yourself be-welcomed to The Point of The Story. Enjoy.

Content created on: 24 July 2019 (Wednesday)

The following is a lightly modified excerpt from an email with a close acquaintance. In full disclosure, it was written with the possibility in mind that it would eventually be shared here. In other words, I was workshopping it.

The context: my friend had some personal writing that he asked me to review, and I was giving him some initial feedback on his work.

And I quote…

Speaking of tangential stories…when I was in college, it was the first semester that I was friends with my perpetual romantic pursuit and eventual former girlfriend, Tiffany Chestnut,¹Not her real name. It is, however, her real “porn star” name. along with her best friend (like, I was friends with her best friend, too, but none of the other descriptors apply. I’m not THAT suave). For some reason, one night I found myself pulling an all-nighter with the bff, whom we’ll refer to as ‘K’, alongside my friend Ben who would become my roommate the following year.

K was working on a book for her elementary education class, while I can’t remember what the hell me and Ben were doing. I think we were just being good friends and helping her get the book completed, which was due the next morning at 8 am. A week or so later, she gets the graded book back, and she got a pretty high mark, 97-99 range but not quite 100.

Well, in what I rationalized as an attempt at humor, my dumb ass made some critical comment about getting a point or two taken off. At the time, my comment seemed to be a non-event, and I probably would have never given it a second thought in my life.

Fast-forward to the end of the semester. Tiffany is getting ready to study abroad in Mexico for the summer and fall semesters, and I had stopped at her hometown on the way to mine for the summer to say hi to her family and bye to her for 7 months. This was long before we briefly dated, so naturally, a component of our conversation involved me trying to cajole her into going out with me.

I pressed her on the issue, and she reticently admitted that she knew she could never date/marry me. So I pressed her some more. I should interject here that I was bawling throughout most of the conversation, though I don’t remember the exact point when the water works started. Anyways, even more reticently, she shares with me two anecdotes that shaped her conviction on the matter.

You guessed it: I got dinged for being unduly critical of K in regards to said project. It turns out that my comment really hurt K and deflated what had been very high spirits, as she had worked very hard on the book and deserved every bit of glory that it earned. But no, I thought I had to be the witty one in the moment, or whatever god-forsaken unresolved inferiority complex I had going on when I made that comment.

For what it’s worth, the other anecdote involved a poorly drawn wheelchair by Ms. Chestnut, and my ensuing humorous observation that wheelchairs like that hadn’t been produced for about a century now. In my defense, she was an art major…and living in the year 2001. So she had no ----- excuse for the engineering atrocity that she had created on paper. None. The REAL crime would have been the ABSENCE of ridicule and mockery…

You may be asking yourself at this point “the point of the story is…?” Well, I’m glad you asked! As you can see, I had the rare experience of knowing the exact moments when my chances with a girl in which I was very interested were mercilessly slaughtered–and in true M. Night fashion, I was the murderer. “What a tweest!”

Well, let me tell you, failing like that is shit that sticks with you. One is a bit more sensitive to the otherwise subconscious impulse to provide unsolicited criticism after something like that. Know what I mean? Of course you don’t. You’re too kind-spirited through and through. (Stated without the slightest sense of sarcasm)

All that being said…there was one typo in your work that I found particularly amusing. Just search the document for “plum” and you will immediately see the [humorous] error of your typing ways.

Content created: 5/6 June 2019 (Sunday/Monday) / 22 July 2019 (Monday)