Oh. I Didn't Notice You There

You ever have one of those weeks (or days) where all of a sudden you wake up and it's the end of the week and you're like, "Huh? That went by fast." Actually, I don't really mean that you woke up and you can't belive it all happened so quickly. Instead I mean like you can't actually remember the past few days?

That's how I feel this month. I can't believe today is Christmas and almost the end of December. The recent days and weeks have been a blur, and not because of weeks of debauchery and me waking up with a bottle of Jack Daniels in my arm and shooing a strange cat out of my bathroom. Work has been batshit crazy, and then I had the longest cold in the history of all colds.

Today, I woke up and revisted some of my favorite blogs and discovered some new ones, which made me think, "Man I hope I didn't blog anything stupid in my own blog." And then I was relieved when I realized I hadn't really blogged anything.

I guess sometimes it's a good thing that I haven't been the best at keeping up with stuff around here. While this is supposed to be a quasi-account of my life, the bottom line is if it's not amusing, no one really cares. And sometimes I just don't feel funny. Sometimes I feel anxious, or sad, or unusual, or like a carebear. And Carebears aren’t really witty, they’re just cheerful, which isn’t all that interesting.

(As an aside, I learned today from watching VH1's I Love Toys that Carebears apparently had some sort of weapon of mass destruction that was like this beam of light that shot out of their chests and injected enough cheeriness into their targets to make them feel like Santa Claus on Prozac having an orgy. Geez, imagine what a Carebear on crack would do with that kind of power.)

I've also been checking up on Facebook and reading up on "Status Updates" from everyone. And I've come to cop out and write some short status updates for myself instead of sitting down at my blog, which is really all I've had time for lately. After all, it's not news unless it's on Facebook.

Not that I haven't tried to write something here. I have a few entries with a sentence or two. But in the style of Facebook, here are some updates on how I've felt over the past couple of weeks.

A Couple Weeks Ago - I Cleaned Out At The Saks Sale

SYNOPSIS: I felt like I was at an outlet store with bargain shoppers

EMOTION: Triumphant Carebear.

Last Week - Why I Love My Staple Remover

SYNOPSIS: Because it's tortoise-shell, and not enough things are.

EMOTION: Sad for the poor tortoises Carebear.

Last Friday - I Had Doughnuts For Lunch Today

SYNOPSIS: They were delicious.

EMOTION: Gross Carebear

Yesterday - Boy, Is Work An Absolute Clusterfuck Today

SYNOPSIS: That's about it.

EMOTION: Anxious Carebear

See? Why waste my time with 2,000 superfluous words? More importantly, why waste my precious emotional resources? A man shares only so much over the course of his life. While women may be renewable wellsprings of emotion and feeling, men are like small ponds. And as women and blog readers sip from them like deer in a forest, they are depleted until finally one day they are empty, which is the day you buy your first recliner. (Did any of what I just wrote make any sense?)

Besides, sometimes I don’t know what my goal is with all this writing and sharing. Maybe I'm starving for attention. Then again, I seem to be fine with being my normal old self. But take Rastus who is the guy on the Cream of Wheat Box. Rastus is actually Frank “Irony” White, a chef who posed for the box way back in 1900 when Cream of Wheat was actually made solely by black men in hats named Rastus.

Then, in 1938, Frank White passed away, a virtual unknown, with a blank gravestone. The man is on the Cream of Wheat box and he can’t even get a friggin “RIP, Rastus. Keep on creamin’ that wheat up in the Big Kitchen”? Finally, almost 70 years later, some guy started a campaign to get him a proper gravestone with an etching of the Cream of Wheat box on it.

My point being, if the goddamned face of Cream of Wheat can fade off into obscurity, even when it’s right there on the shelf next to the Farina kid’s face (whose name, by the way, no one knows – maybe it’s just a warm breakfast cereal curse?) then what’s the point of blogging? I like to aim all my actions at being remembered after I die, because let’s face it I’m into the “big picture” stuff. So if I have limited resources with which to entertain and an open-ended timeline for failure, why do I keep on trying?

Because if there's anything I know about the high price of fame, it's that I do not want to be chased by a band of paparazzi, only to jump into a nearby river for cover and hold my breath for 14 minutes as I swim to freedom. Then of course, once I get to shore, there is another group of nasty photographers waiting for me who shout "There he is! Get him!" I don't need to be caught on tape right now, even if I have just lost 5lbs from being sick.

Merry Christmas Everyone!