For a blog to really grow in popularity, it has to tackle the important issues in our world today, which is why I have tirelessly focused on P90X, my Corgis and having to fly on business trips.
I also have written a few heartfelt tributes for people, but at this point, I am just trying to minimize the gradual decent into a macabre diary of everything breaking apart and pieces falling off of me.
When they finally do send me down river and set the boat on fire with flaming arrows, I mostly hope for two things - one, that I am actually really dead at that point and not just sleeping... and two, that people say a couple nice things about me.
I already have a "good" friend who promised me this week that if I let him give my eulogy that he would spend it making fun of all my never-ending problems and him trying to make everyone laugh.
(Another time, he told a comedian friend of ours he thinks he totally could do stand-up, so I think I should give him a shot.)
As I hobbled into the hospital today with my leg brace, I passed a young lady who smiled at me. But I am not stupid.
I know girls are no longer smiling because they think I am the cute 45 year old that I mistakenly used to think I was just a year ago.
They're smiling out of sad pity for the crippled 65 year old that my limp and beard make them think I am now. A couple even held doors for me today, which was "nice".
Yes, I know all the white in my beard makes me look older than I am, but I really don't think about it that much. But still, the two most common suggestions people give me about my beard are:
- Shave it off
- It looks terrible, shave it off
I fully admit that 90% of the beard compliments I've gotten were at the tattoo parlor.
But I have a hard time convincing my detractors that I just like it and want to grow it out and that I am not just doing it because I "love attention". This is easily disproved by two simple facts:
- Yes, I love attention, fine you got me on that one
- But I don't love negative attention, so shut it
I told him he was rude and maybe I thought he had "an aroma" too and that made it really awkward for a minute.
But then he spelled it out for me as an injured nerve. Then he gave me a shot right into my foot with what was probably no longer than a 4 or 5 foot needle. There's no way that was the regulation sized needle, but I guess I had it coming for the "aroma" comment.
Luckily, he said I should be able to walk normal again in as little as 3 weeks, just in time for me to stay fat and out of shape for the family reunion this summer.
Then I stormed out of his office as quick as you'd expect a fat man with one foot could storm, but I'm not giving up!
I may be a chronic breaker-aparter and pieces-falling-offer, but I am not a quitter.
I WILL start exercising again as soon as possible and I WILL still lose this winter weight before summer*.
Then I can finally focus again on writing about important things, like cigars and Corgis. Maybe beards.