Whose house?

***Today’s post is brought to you by the Don’t Call Your Girlfriend a Chupacabra Even as a Joke Society***

The pronoun “I” will feature prominently in my work here. Rightfully so, of course. If I were writing as me for your blog, it might be a different story. Probably not, but that’s your fault for letting me write for you. This is my digital word-house, and I’ll act accordingly. Also, this is a spectator sport, and nothing satisfies like self-serving, near-meltdown posts. Hang in there long enough and I’m sure some maudlin wave of self pity will wash over me and you’ll be there at the start of a literary train wreck. Just not today.

There were many things I left out of my hastily carved mini-bio in the previous post. Can you blame me? Listing every little detail about yourself does one of two things: induces coma or breeds über-stalkers who just want to make sure your spleen is happy in its new home in their freezer. While I’m not sure my spleen wouldn’t be happier there, my other gooey inner junk would miss it terribly. Also, since I tend to fictionalize many actual conversations I have with people so that it seems like I’m far more witty and charming than I really am, keeping most of the real me secret means someone I piss off with my writing gets the pleasure of calling me a fraud at some later date. Win-win.

Speaking of pissing people off, if you find that you’ve been fictionalized here, it’s for one of two reasons: either I trust that you’ll find humor in my lies, or you’ve stumbled here by accident and were never supposed to see what I’ve written about you. In case of the latter, my name is Patrick MacDoogleshins and I live on the moon. Come at me, bro. Not everything you hear (or read, for that matter) is all that entertaining, so spicing modern life up in literary form with a few embellishments or additions is a way to say, “I love what you should have said.” Cool? Moving on.

Honestly, this is my way of starting something that should have started a few decades ago: showcasing something that I’m good at. Holy crap, did I just compliment myself? Let me temper that a bit with , “kinda”. I can string a few words together in a manner that tends to indicate meaning of some sort, and I’ve taken too long of a hiatus from treading those neural pathways. Seriously, the crap I’m finding in there…

This will likely never turn into a Q&A format where I beg you to care enough to ask questions of me that I will probably not answer to your liking, but if it ever does, remind me that I’m just doing this to ensure I don’t forget how to write semi-coherently. I’ll pout, but you’ll never see it. If you’re still with me after the next post I’m composing, then you’re clearly paying for some past-life evil. These entries will likely bounce around like a sugar fueled toddler, but stick with me and I promise to disappoint you sooner or later.

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One Comment on “Whose house?”

  1. Narf Says:

    Pretty good so far. Is it wrong that I really DO want your spleen in my freezer? by “just friends” 🙂


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