Forgive me, interwebs, for I have sinned.

Writers block. Anxiety. Self-indulgent hermitism. They're ugly demons, folks. Ugly as fuck. And I feel as though I've been possessed for a few months now, for some reason or another.

However, I realize that this does not negate the fact that I have loyal readers, who crave - no, who need - precious, precious lawls and anecdotes. And I have failed you all for too long.

I'm sorry. Truly, truly sorry.

I will try harder. And in the meantime, penance. PENANCE, my precious pigeons! I must be held accountable for my crimes. No, no, I insist. Thusly, I offer to you five slightly-embarrassing confessions about yours truly; One for every other week that I've been away. Think of it as an interwebs confessional. You are the priests and priestesses. And I? I'm a filthy, deplorable, wicked heathen, for reasons not limited to, but including:

#5.  I laugh way too hard at Hitler jokes. 

BAM. You thought we'd ease into it, didn't you? Thought I'd start it off with something a bit more tame, did you? Like "I leave wet towels on the floor" or something? Forget that shit. We're diving in lady-balls first. And straight up, I enjoy a good Hitler joke. I think it stems from my sincere, deep love of uncomfortable and inappropriate situations, coupled with my habit of using humor to deal with undesirable thoughts or ideas.

In some small way, I think turning Hitler into a meme, a chuckle, a joke, is a small way of pissing on his proverbial grave. Why let Hitler continue to invoke a sad, somber atmosphere at the mere mention of his name, when you could instead, draw a stick figure of him banging your coworker's mother whilst bending her across "Mein Kampfy Chair?"

Amy's mom, gone wild with the Fuhrer. 

Turn that motherfucker into a joke. Give him a hearty "fuck you" with your laughter. He would have hated it. Join me in this first of my five confessions. Hell, join me in the next one too, if you want to get weird. 

#4. I hate pants. 

Know what? Guilty. And I won't apologize for it. I have a ritual when I get home from work: Drag ass up the stairs, hit the light switch, lock the door, and kick those fucking jeans across the room with a vengeance. Sometimes I do a little dance afterwards, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I put on shorts afterward, and sometimes. I. don't. Does that shock you, America?? I break ALL the rules. I am on the edge. It's sheer pandemonium (pantsdemonium?) that can't be contained. Deal with it. You cannot tame the wild phoenix that is my pantsless desire. I will never stop enjoying this sweet, sweet freedom, which one can only enjoy in the privacy of their own home. Their own, pantsless home. 

#3. I'm pretty sure I have fun-size Tourette's Syndrome. 

I think we all have those moments where we reflect on something particularly idiotic that we did, either as a kid or a young adult or a couple months ago at Goodwill, and can't help but cringe at ourselves and at our own stupidity. Some people reflect on this with a chuckle, some just shake it off and try to ignore their regret. Me? For some reason, I become ridiculously embarrassed, to the point where I usually stomp my foot or hit my desk, followed quickly by a couple exasperated and colorful expletives. It's okay when I'm by myself, but out in public, it has been known to incite some offended or frightened glares from the locals. I can't blame them, though. They don't know that I'm reflecting on something humiliating. All they see is a random girl at Kroger, reaching for a can of cranberry sauce, stopping midway, shaking her head angrily and muttering "fucknuggets." But, since I have more control over this than someone with legit Tourette's, I've decided it's just fun-sized. And no, you don't need to point out the irony that, in these moments, I'm usually creating additional moments which I'll reflect on later. It's a vicious and hilarious cycle. 

#2. I had really bizarre celebrity crushes as a child. 

Don't get me wrong; I also had normal crushes for girls my age, like all the members of N'Sync and Backstreet Boys (except for Howie and Lance.) But I also had a couple which, reflecting back, were kind of fucked up. The first that comes to mind is Jeff Goldblum. Yes, Jeff Fucking Goldblum. 

Yeah, I don't get it either, Jeff. Look at your hair. Dafuq. 

Like... I don't understand it. Look at him. What the hell kind of tween sees that smug mug, and hears that stuttering persona he portrays in every movie, and thinks "Yep. That's the man of my dreams, alright." I can maybe, maybe understand an adult finding him attractive in a nerdy sort of way, but your guess is as good as mine, as far as what compelled me to be attracted to him as a kiddo.

And if you thought that was bad... I also had a crush on Richard Karn. Why does that name sound familiar, you ask? Because Richard Karn is better known as "Al Borland" from that 90s TV classic "Home Improvement."

Dramatic reenactment.

Yeah.... my confusion over Jeff Goldbloom doesn't hold a candle to my not understanding this bullshit. What power this pudgy, bungling, bearded side-kick held over my adolescent self, I'll never know. And I don't particularly want to know. But I do know this: No normal girl my age had a crush on Al Borland. *shrug*

I know, I know. Me? Not normal? Someone alert the media.

#1. Sometimes, when Mr. Biffles is snuggling under the covers with me in bed, I let out a lengthy, wall-trembling fart, just to remind him who (begrudgingly) wears the pants (sometimes) in this relationship.   Then I laugh myself to tears as he tries to escape his dungeon of flatulence. 

I don't think this one really needs a description beyond that, except to say I'm a terrible person.

So, there's that. Penance for me, a new post for you, and hopefully, the beginning of the end of my creative blockage for us all.

Have a wonderful, three-day weekend, fellow laborers!









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