His name is Bobby, he looks like a potato
July 6, 2007
This blog really isn’t the type of thing you want your co-workers or family reading. However, against all better judgment, I forwarded the link to my father. After all, he’s hip, smart, has a great sense of humour and is about as open-minded as men of his age come. Well, I was very flattered to hear that he enjoyed the read. I explained that I’m not exactly creating anything profound here–just blathering on about this or that, and throwing in a bit of lowbrow LuLz for good measure. I was even more flattered to hear that he forwarded the link to a few others.
But then I thought, “who, exactly, are a few others?”, and then asked him in an email.
His response? “Everyone.”
Everyone? Really? That means that family, family friends, his co-workers, and goodness knows who else have access to the recent detailed chronicles of my ne’erdowellism and debauchery. While I hope that when they read this they’ll somehow appreciate it for the iota of insight and intelligence it provides, or, at least, walk away and think “Well, he’s not a complete idiot”, the overall opinions are likely to be much less flattering than my father’s.
Now that the cat’s out of the bag and the readers are no longer just my friends and people who type fucked up shit into Google (oh man, that’s a post on its own.), I can no longer go on about sharing needles in cracktown because I didn’t have enough money for beer, or escorting older gentlemen to seedy washroom stalls because I didn’t have enough money for beer, or pounding three ounces of Listerine chased with a TravelPak-sized bottle of cough syrup because I didn’t have enough money for beer!
I know I’m a grown man and all, but these are people that I try to make at least a decent impression on. These are people I shower for. People that I, bi-annually, write to or call to tell them about my “job”, “apartment”, “girlfriend” and “how great everything’s going”. People I say ‘please’ and ‘thank-you’ to. People that I even go through the labouring efforts of wearing long sleeves to cover my meth-scabs and track marks for.
Just as well, really. Keeping up a facade of that magnitude is taxing on the soul, and there isn’t all that much I can do about it now.