Return of the man... in Souls Cannot Be Fooled

Like a meal of maggot-filled zombie corpse with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, this is Thursday.

Yeah. So. Hi. Did you miss me? Did you realize I was gone? No? Oh. Okay. Yeah. Well, I used to be a semi-famous (at least in my own mind) blogger from back before all the cool kids had blogs and the internet was just a fun place to spend 2500 free AOL hours on porn and telling the world some of what we thought.

Now, we spend our entire lives plugged into the interwebs, porn is never more than a flick of the thumb away and we can’t go more than 10 seconds without posting a picture, some thoughts, an opinion or my new favorite, a selfie with added features like puppy nose, ears and extra large eyeballs.

How does a fella compete with that?

First things third. Part of what I’m doing (writing again, hopefully often) is about where I’m writing. I’m here to support Prosebox. I’m here to say that being here, now that an old familiar other choice is available again, is what I prefer. The past is the past. It was great there, but it also sucked. It was a constant fight. The site was always down or malfunctioning. Entries got lost. People got jacked around and the proprietor of that other site had a god-complex. Fuck him.

I used to subscribe to a website that took metrics of how I performed on that site. I know how many people I brought in every day. I know how many unique visitors came to see me. I know how many countries I was read in every day. If I had a blog that did those kinds of hits today, I’d make a killing in advertising.

Sadly, I don’t have that following anymore. I’ll be lucky to get a tiny bit of my readership back. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer, but what I do have, I offer to Prosebox.

I will not go back. I will never go back. I choose to be here. I am glad to be here. This is my home, now and forever. If all the battered wives want to go back to the blog site that beat them, that’s their business. But he hasn’t changed his ways. He doesn’t really love you this time. He’s not sorry for how he treated you in the past. You’re nothing but dollars and cents to him. So, as all the sheep flock back to the pimp hand waiting for them, I’m coming here. I hope more of you choose to do so as well.

Truth be told, I’m just happy to be typing. I broke my arm back in May of last year. I cracked the humerus bone right in half. There was this building on fire and there were lots of nuns and puppies inside. I had to break down a huge wooden door with superhuman strength borne of adrenaline and Gatorade to save them.

Or. Yanno. I fell down the front stairs of the building I used to work in and fell. It’s a boring story for another time. The result, however, was that even after the bone healed, I had damage to my radial nerve, which runs down the arm, around the humerus exactly where I cracked the fucker, and down into the hand. As a result, I could grip things, but I couldn’t open my hand up. If I did grip something, I had to use my off hand to open the fingers to let go. (There’s a good masturbation joke in there somewhere. I may have to come back and edit)

Anyway, it took forever for the radial nerve to come back online. Truth be told, it’s still not all the way back. But I can open my hand now and I can type. I’ve only been typing for about a month. I’m not sure it’ll ever fully heal. But I’ll tell you what: The doctor told me not to worry, but he was also honest and said that it was possible that the nerve would never come back online again. He said that I may never type with all ten fingers again. And hunting and pecking with one hand SUCKS. I need to convey my thoughts at the speed I have them or I’ll forget them.

It left me feeling pretty scared. All of the sudden, it was like I had things to say again. I would sit and look at my laptop and the dust piling on top of it and think of all the things I had to say and wondered what it would be like to never have the chance to do this–exactly this–ever again. And I felt foolish for not doing it on purpose. I felt stupid for not writing. I felt like I was wasting time and talent and a much needed outlet for the madness in my mind. I could have been writing all that time before the accident and I wasn’t.

So, I promised myself that if I got to a point where I ever could type an entry again, I would. And here I am. Welcome or not. Missed or not. Whether you’ve finally just paid off the therapist you used to have to talk to after reading my ramblings or mad at me for not being here more often and not being more supportive of you.

I think I’m at a point now where I can write just for me again. My way. Which means lots of sexual innuendo (in your end, oh!) and more cursing than a witch in traffic. It means my thoughts, opinions and musing. It means it’ll be whatever the fuck I want it to be.

I always thought I’d always have time to write. Then I almost had that taken from me. Sure, there’s text to type or hunting and pecking but I could never have written anything significant that way. I need all 10 fingers working in concert to interpret the demons that come flying out of my mind when I sit at my computer.

You’d think, after having lived my particular life, that I’d already know that nothing is promised and to seize the day and all that bullshit. But I guess I needed a reminder. So, I got it.

And here I am. For better or worse, forever hoops.