My Ipod

My Ipod

Oh man, I can hardly believe this. Here I am, it's Tuesday morning, I'm hungover, and yet somehow this seems to be writing itself. Somehow I'm having a harder time breathing than typing. Holy fucking shit, was that a hot flash? Whoa, that was intense, and not the my-heart-is-out-of-control-from-all-the-cocaine good kind of intense. I swear, I have been on auto-pilot for the past three paragraphs, and from my mad-real blogger instinct, every word has been perfectly selected. Am I almost done or just getting started? Who the fuck knows. Certainly not me. I'll just keep plugging along, waiting for that instinct to take over. Gotta trust the auto-pilot. Oh, wait, wait. Wait. Motherfucker, what should I fucking do here? I really want this next sentence to be pretty strong. I'm not sure I have made it that kind of pivotal, post-changing, cup-the-balls kind of sentence as it currently stands. Each word in the current sentence fits quite well, so what to do? How could something be missing from this? I really like it, but something is not right or I would be fucking typing away right now and not second guessing myself. I better get some coffee and re think this. Oh shit. Damn, how did I not think of this earlier? How did I not think of adding the word fucking between "my" and "ipod"? So strong, so bold. You'd think I'd have a four car garage filled with Ford vehicles, it's so bold. Ooh, but wait, hold the fucking phone -- the last thing I want to do is sour this sweet, delectable morsel of literary dessert.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm afraid to type the word fuck, or any variation of it. I'm like, totally independent. Man, it's totally liberating to just like, go online and shit, and just get into that zone, man. Jesus Christ. Hey, I'm just doing my job, here -- you got a fucking problem with that? You do your job and I have mine. Backcountry blogging, baby. No key patrol. No nothing. Just you and the keyboard, and and the truth. And the mountain. But sometimes bro, sometimes you just be like feeling the connection, between you and the internet, and you just want to be like, felt by everyone, you hear me bitch? The last thing that needs to happen when you are just owning it is for someone to dismiss you because of a terrible fucking word choice. That would fucking blow dick.

But it's like, you know that movie Scarface? That won line where he's all "All I have in this world are my word and my balls and I don't break them for no one" and shit? Well, let's just say that, as a blogger, that fucking speaks to me. Bigtime. I'd like to hire someone's mom to craft me a framed needlepoint of that shit, cause that's what it all comes down to. If I had mad cash, I'd be on Craigslist erotic services right now, emailing some prostitutes to just come over and needlepoint that shit topless. No, wait -- bottomless. But I'd put them in the old chairs I have, and then spray Fantastic all over the chairs afterwards. That shit's antibacterial.

You may be wondering how the fuck I'm going to resolve this shit-fuck of a situation. This probably looks siriusly unresolvable, dude, but fucking relax, asshole. This is the kind of problem bloggers solve every fucking day of the week. We're out there, turning all that blank virtual space into something more. Something that can't be unfucked. The cat's out of the barn, as the saying goes. It's like, empty space and then BAM! Words. So lets take a huge deep breath and shit. Whether or not I decide to type fucking, I'm going to be who the fuck I am was, is, has been, and fucking were.