**I know this won't reach you because you don't know I blog. So I blogged my apology. 
I admit, I was this giddy fool with a charged motormouth that was running more on caffeine than on forethought and common sense. I talked a lot, spared nothing, and your love life became a laughing stock in consequence. I might have crossed some boundaries; mighty apologetic if I did.
Lord knows how I could've used those extra two hours of zzzs. And then save myself the embarassment, but no. That fucking Siamese cat I call Prince couldn't have picked a better time to pester me with his noisy whining. So I smashed his face in with my Chucks, but the damage has been done. I was groggy with sleeplessness, but I can't indulge myself. Work is in two more hours, and I have the pacing of an earthworm.
I'm still maintaining it was the coffee that did it. After all, its far too easy to blame it on the addiction. m still sorry hough
**Tell yourself this. I know it worked for me. Let me hold your hand so we can say it together.
How do you expect to inspire industry when you betray your own incompetence with vigorous scapegoating and the usual set of tired excuses? I mean, seriously.
Picture courtesy of cynic-tees.
Nine years is a long time for somebody to be maintaining a deathly bad habit. I started smoking in the year 2000 (mostly as a big Fuck You to them dime a dozen doomsayers. The end of the world didn't happen, so I might as well try smoking), and if I keep this up, then I might as well be exhaling red smoke in another year or so. I'm not a heavy smoker, but I keep a schedule. My recommended daily allowance of ten sticks (tops, Marlboro Lights) gets consumed in very specific intervals and moods. There's a stick first thing in the morning; I'm holding a cigarette before I do my toothbrush. And then there's another stick on my way to work. Three hours go by and its another stick on my first coffee break, two during lunch, and then one more before going home. Sometimes I take three sticks during lunch because an hour allows us a lot of time to scandalize, and nothing gets you smoking faster when its over the latest office gossip. I scatter two more sticks before I call it a day, and then it's the same song and dance all over the next morning. With that being said, I can halfheartedly say that I don't feel my lungs collapsing in bloody papier mache lumps the size of closed fists, but the idea of exhaling red smoke has been nagging itself into recent memory any opportunity it gets. My friends are either smokers, or they don't mind the secondhand smoke. I prefer the latter mostly because they never bum for a cigarette. I love him in spite of his shallow skin deep tendencies. And, as expected, I'm willing to share some of his stresses if only he weren't such a drama queen about everything. I don't usually mind because, fuck it, I'm in love.I've learned to realize that your siblings, not your childhood friends, are your best reminders of your own personal history. They're like Post Its that share your last name. This is mostly because, try as you might, there's just no letting go of the family you were born with.
**The hard way. The only way to learn. 
"You know you're in love is when you're willing to give up on something just as important if only to have him in its place." You may or may not agree with that. You may have your own set of better sounding theories, but I'm saying that with the conviction of somebody who learned from experience. It was three years ago when I decided to leave the nest to cohabitate with the love of my life. I, we abandoned the warm trappings of our respective comfort zones, and we endured independence on our lonesome. I for one left home to build a new one for the two of us. Three years later and the family we created for ourselves grew to include two cats and a row of potted plants.That was decidedly super. Still is.I committed myself to this sacrifice three years back, and I can only be happy I did. What I said earlier, about giving up on something as important if only to have him in its place, held true all this time. I learned that plus a whole hellraising lot of lessons which included the importance of kitty litter and to hug as much as possible. Three years with him made me this headstrong bitch with a "been there, done that" take on things however all too kindly subdued. That gives me the license to take a big fat dump on, or at least contest what highfalluting musical bullshit HYPOTHESES you're quoting yourself for. Love is felt, experienced even, so plagiarizing advice that complies to your extensive knowledge base of second hand love stories doesn't count for shit.What I'm saying, really, is that I'd rather take advice from some sorry loser with a long running streak of bad EBs (eyeballs, first offline dates), than from somebody who never knew what it FELT like to have Mr Right not show up on their first date because Mr Right suddenly had an appointment exactly five minutes before their call time. Too long, I know. I'd rather have it from some aging drag queen whose drug addict lover broke her heart and stole her DVD player, than from somebody who just heard about it. I'd rather hear it from some closet queen who never recovered from the one who got away because he can't bear his discrete ways anymore, than from another closet queen who'd rather stay closeted as opposed to coming out because they're too uncomfortable with the real picture and its consequences.You can arrange your secondhand advice in such a proofread way that its ready to print, but I would rather hear it from somebody who's been there. The anguish of getting your heart broken twice all over (cheesy, I know) contributes an added dimension of pain to the whole narrative. The sense of accomplishment in finding AND keeping the love of your life (cheesier still, I'm on a roll) manifests itself in an amazing sparkle that punctuates the storyteller's eyes. I'm very critical of such consistencies because these non-verbal cues reveal a deserved wisdom that I'm nothing but willing to subscribe to. If this means that I'm not that receptive to what nonsense you have in your behalf, then so be it. I don't need that much advice anyway, just those that count.If you never knew how it felt like to begin with, then do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up. Sensitive issues call for listeners, not know-it-all motormouths who capitalize on nothing but peppered secondhand hearsay. Plagiarism is a crime that, once discovered, destroys credibility. Its the same song and dance with these advice plagiarists, if only on a smaller scale. Image stolen from this webpage. Thanks!
1. Stop making excuses. You update like you are menstruating, which is, like, never. And when you do, you come up with something that's as rotten as pantyliner mess. Stop trying to "get your groove back." That only worked with Angela Basset in the movies. It's still there. You just need to work on your... stroke. Stroke? For masturbating your creativity, fool. 2. Be more relevant. Ha haa, I just made that up, and I wouldn't know how in the hell to follow that shit up. 3. Relevant my ass. 4. You're so distracted by your kinky night job that you might just be, and I'm saying this like its an off-chance, you might just be losing your grip on your moxie. Stay true to what you are by default. You're a flaming fag with a fine fluency for foulmouthing, and people love you for that. Well, maybe three of them love your for that, but that didn't stop you from not caring. 5. Number four translates well to your kind of trashy writing, so stop being so proper. Nouns can be proper, the British can be proper, you're neither. So stop trying, that is so not you. 6. You notice that bald spot in your sidebar? That's where your blogroll used to be. Uh huh. And you had the balls to place your hit counter up on the upper rightmost, just above your profile for everybody else's viewing pleasure. You should know, FYI, this blog doesn't read itself. And it sure as hell doesn't leave comments on its own posts. That would be very retarded, and I mean clinically retarded. 7. You need to acknowledge people again. Try that blogging calisthenic they call blog hopping. I mean, try it again. It might do you a whole heaven of good. It DID the first time around, so there's no reason why it shouldn't.
