I hate it when there’s a blog I really like to read and I go there on a regular basis and then one day I go there and they’ve been noticed. Maybe it’s media attention. Maybe it’s Reddit or Digg or whatever. The point is, they get popular and then they get bought and then they suck.

Every time I go there now there’s ads all over the place, they’ve changed the look to make it more sterile and boring, they completely stop swearing and most of their blog posts are blatant sales pitches.

Gah. That sucks so hard! Stop doing that, internet!

My second thought was, “Wait. Just who wins these things??”

Nearly every product out there has these marketing schemes, from cars to candy bars. Win a thousand dollars a week for life if you buy Coke. Win a new Mustang if you buy a carrot. Eat at Joe’s and win a free liposuction. As far as marketing potential goes, I get it.

But who the hell wins all these contests? I’ve never once seen any follow up on it. Have you ever looked in the paper to see “Local man wins twenty million and an Asian bride for opening Pepsi can”? Have you ever actually known anyone who has won one of these contests? I haven’t.

“Hey, that’s a cool Rolex.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet. I got it out of a box of Cheerios.”

That’s never once happened to me. Not even a little bit. What does this mean? Does it mean these contests are all scams? Is anyone keeping track? What if they’re all LYING to us — a strange thought for a greedy marketing department, I know — and we just keep buying all this shit because we think we might actually win something?

Think about it. Have you ever bought one product over another because of the allure of a million dollars, or maybe even just a pair of movie tickets? I mean, all things being equal – price, taste, convenience, whatever – if you were indifferent to it all,  wouldn’t you pick the product with the promotion? I would think so. Human nature seems to suggest so.

If they aren’t lying and they are actually awarding all these fabulous prizes, where are the winners? Do they have to go into hiding? Do they have to sign confidentiality clauses stating they will never speak of their winnings? If so, wouldn’t their friends, neighbors and family get suspicious? Wouldn’t they be all like, “Hey, where did you get the money for that giant mansion and Rolls Royce in your driveway? You work at Sonic Burger.” ?? Wouldn’t it get out somehow?

And that doesn’t make sense anyway because why would a marketing company DO that? They wouldn’t. They would want to get every inch of mileage out of the promotion before having to pay for another one. They would not shut up about it before, during, or after.

“We’re Twix! We’re made of chocolate and caramel! We awarded a 15 year old girl a new Ford Taurus twenty years ago!”

Seriously. They would exploit that shit.

So, I’m asking you? Who the hell ever wins $10,000 and a trip to Vegas from a candy bar?

And I respond thusly, “Pfffffthhh.”

Vegas isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s loud and dirty and crowded and people act like they are the only living thing on the planet and woe be unto you if you get in their way or impede their desires in even the most minute way. I’ve seen multiple car accidents and one pedestrian struck by a car. The other cars were honking – HONKING – at this man who was fallen in the crosswalk. How dare he not to continue to walk right on out of their way after being struck in a crosswalk? How dare he stand in their way? He should have crawled on hands and knees the rest of the way through the crosswalk, so as to not delay them even one minute. I despair for the human race, I tell you. My fingers to God’s ears, we’re a sorry lot sometimes.

The stench of cigarettes, booze and desperation hangs thick in the air. The con artists and smut peddlers are out in full force. It is most definitely a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Brimstone. Sulfur. Burning. Ash. What’s NOT to envy?

But it’s a living and it was only a week and  I get to leave Sunday. So I won’t complain about that anymore.

Instead, I’ll show you this article entitled The Art of Giving Up by Dyske Suematsu because it’s a good article and you should read it and then tell me what you think.

Thank you and I hope you are well and good night. Be home soon!

It’s eight o clock and I’m just waiting for bedtime. It’s the highlight of my evening. I’m like, DYING for bedtime. Come oooon bedtime! Let’s go!

It’s not been a good day, but I’ve resolved to pick myself up by my big girl panties and deal with it. Whining and pouting like a simpering, spoiled nitwit isn’t going to help anything. Well, okay, it does make me feel a little better to hide in the closet and have myself a good cry, but only to an extent. After the first hour it just feels self indulgent and a little embarrassing. Not to mention the carpet burns from thrashing around like a lunatic on the closet floor.

I assure you, I am completely sane. First of all, we have a very spacious closet. It’s huge! I leave breadcrumbs when I go in for my wardrobe.  Secondly,  It was just a long, frustrating day. People are a disappointment and then I feel bad for expecting so much of them so in the end, their failures become my failures. Right? So there’s this person you know and this person doesn’t do the things he or she should do in order to lead a drama-free, successful, at least somewhat happy life. Even though this person knows the right thing to do. They have the answers. They just …don’t choose it. And then this person, this person turns to you like, CONSTANTLY, for validation and a pep talk. “Oh boo hoo. It’s not working out for me. Make me feel better.” Oh ffs, do what you’re supposed to do, don’t do the rest or else don’t come crying to me to make you feel better about your poor, stupid choices.

I assure you, I am completely sane. First of all, that conversation, while technically only in my head and with an imaginary person, it ALSO could very well apply to a conversation that takes place OUTSIDE of my head and with non. ..imaginary… person.

And secondly — I’ve forgotten the second point. But whatever it was, I’m sure it was cleverly constructed in such a way that you’re left with no lingering doubts whatsoever about my sanity.

Psycho killer, qu’est que c’est.

That IS what it’s all about, right? We’re all scrambling to be seen and heard. We’re a nation heavily dependent on being acknowledged. We want it so much we’re willing to abandon the most basic courtesy. I’m worried about us, America. I’m worried that we’re screwing it all up so much we’ll never get back on track again. We’ve had adversity before, sure. We’ve endured a lot. But you only get so many mulligans before the game is just over. For good.

Not that we’re going to implode or be nuked off the planet — though I don’t rule it out. It’s more likely that we will end up in a dark age of our own making. Civility and dignity will go the way of the dodo. The quest for enlightenment and education will be abandoned. Individuality and free thought will be looked upon with scorn. I’m worried a lot.

What if we’re already there? What if we can’t get back?

We’ve got information, an endless amount of information, right at our fingertips. We’ve got unlimited potential. We’ve got the whole world at our disposal and fracken Jersey Shore is the absolute BEST we can come up with??!?? Seriously???

Meh. We suck.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love us. I’m just having second thoughts about this relationship. And I don’t have all the answers. Or, you know, any of the answers. But we gotta do something! Maybe we should try couples therapy. Either that or we agree to see other people. I don’t care which. You pick. Just make it snappy because I won’t be waiting around for you all year.

I want to know why I’m never consulted about these decisions! I think people should know they are being deceived! They drive around, satisfied in the knowledge that the whole city got together and voted on their most favorite taco stand and it turns out I was never even asked!

And furthermore, what if I’m not the ONLY one they missed? What if it turns out that they missed a whole city block and those people are all driving around going, “Wait a minute, I don’t recall anyone asking ME what I would vote for in the contest for Seattle’s best plumber! What’s going on here!?” But then they’re embarrassed and they don’t want to seem like they’re out of the loop, so they pretend. They  go along. They’re like, “Oh yeah. That place. I voted so hard for that place! That place has the BEST coffee ever! That’s like, the ONLY place I ever go.”

They just overcompensate because they’re embarrassed about not being asked and they want to be included and “in the know” so they fake it.

It’s a conspiracy! It’s a sham.

We should all write our congressmen.

That’s not a question. It’s a statement. I’m so irritated and on edge. I wish I had a vice to fall back on, something I could run to and say things like, “You don’t understand. I need it. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now! Just a little more. I can quit tomorrow. GIVE IT TO ME OR DIE!” and then there would be an intervention and a made-for-tv movie about my epic and harrowing struggle for sobriety – life/limb, good versus evil.

That kind of thing.

But I got nothin’. All I got is a whoppin’ case of the red ass and no real good explanation for where it came from. The boys are driving me to drink. They’re bickering and arguing like — well, like boys do. Matt is making me loopy. I don’t have anything to say to him and I feel like we’re missing each other by the mile. I keep trying to connect with him and end up coming up short at every turn.  Every new endeavor I undertake leaves me feeling flat and fully disinterested. Dissatisfied. Maybe I’m depressed. Is this what depression feels like? I’m not interested in anything. I don’t care about anything. I’m mad at everything. I’ve no patience.

I don’t even have the patience or interest in finishing this entry.

I suppose I should probably count myself lucky that it’s only been twice in 8 years. Those are pretty good odds. Right?

It’s partially my fault, as I was trying to put off updating WordPress until 2.7 came out. They were supposed to release it in November, but it’s been delayed. I didn’t want to update to 2.6.3.1.9 and a half. Or whatever we’re up to now. Just to turn around and update to 2.7 in a minute. So I waited. And as a result I was a victim of a security vulnerability. So, okay. It’s my fault. But let me tell you, in case you don’t already know, GoDaddy is a big fat joke. Their customer service leaves much to be desired. Actually, that’s not true. Customer service doesn’t really even *exist* with them. Hard to suck at something you can’t even be arsed to attempt.

So I switched hosts. Bluehost charges half the price, with no limit on file server storage and I’ve got two or three other accounts with them. They’ve never done me wrong. The evil warlord GoDaddy lured me away for this account. I was weak. I was dumb.

They kept sending me messages saying I was over my 150,000 MB limit for storage. A) I didn’t know there was a limit and B) I don’t know how I could be over my limit when I have been a bad, bad blogger, barely updating when I should. But whatever. It turns out I was hacked and whoever it was decided to slam my server with a bunch of gobbedlygook. Even getting GoDaddy to understand that, much less help me do something about it, was a nightmare. In fact, it’s STILL not sorted out.

So. That’s it. Long story short, I’m back now. If the site looks wonky that’s from the good people at Bluehost trying to help me get it back on track.

Also, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE WordPress. I want to smooch its face off. 2.7 is finally here and it rocks. It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. Allllll mine. And the evil gnome who resides in my control panel.

I hate that I neglect the place for so long. I fill scores of notebooks with inane drivel. It’s quality, inane drivel. Stuff I’m sure the rest of the world is desperate to hear about. I keep telling myself I should open the notebook and jot some stuff out, but when I open the notebook I am reminded of a million things I need to get done for work. I start out bargaining with myself. I’ll do twenty minutes of work and then write for a full hour. It never works. By the time my head pops up and I wipe the drool from my mouth, I realize too late that I’ve been working on forms and policies and applications for four hours straight. Writing isn’t an option then. Writing isn’t even possible then. The last thing I want to do is spend more time at the laptop.

I cling to this place in a way that means I am serious about it. I don’t want to let it go. I think about closing the door and I become dedicated to its survival. I’m like a little kid swearing, with renewed vigor, that I will take care of my puppy and feed it and bathe it and take it for walks every day from now on. I go about it with such feverish defense that one would never know how it scares me. It’s a good puppy and it’s smart and cute, but it’s such a big responsibility. Such a reminder of my failed pursuit of enlightenment.

What happened to my ambition was, I kept getting sidetracked and then forgot that I was going for something. I lost the thread somewhere along the way and it slipped away from me.

I’ve thought of reviving it. Administering creative CPR. What I thought I would do was, I would come up with a hook. I decided I would turn a gimmick in the form of serial content. I would make myself be disciplined about posting regularly. This never happens. Instead, what happens is that I get the big ideas and then pat myself on the back for a well-conceived plan and then file it away in the never to be done bin.

Still, I don’t want to abandon it. I don’t want to walk through the day like the living dead, hungry for a syllable or a well-turned phrase. I have a distinct distaste for pouring my heart out in public and no desire to change. It’s not about therapy. I leave a lot out when I tell the stories. I embellish and edit the boring stuff out. It’s not about the truth. I don’t think it’s hurting anyone. It’s just an outlet. An occasional, once in a while kind of outlet. I guess I’m okay with that.

Okay, we’re done here.

To be clear, I don’t agree with dogfighting. I love my pooches and if someone was to hurt them they would quickly find a stiletto to the crotch as their reward. But OBVIOUSLY, not everyone feels that way. Michael Vick, for instance? Okay, look. He came out and said, “Dog fighting is a terrible thing.”

What? Bullshit! I call bullshit. You were doing it. You hosted it. Don’t insult my intelligence and tell me you think it’s a terrible thing. You clearly don’t see anything wrong with it, you damn fool.

Don Imus, okay? It’s rude to call someone, anyone, a nappy-headed ho, Don. You should know better. But guess what? You’re a freaking SHOCK JOCK as well as a giant tool. That’s your thing. It’s your gig. You meant it to be amusing and funny, albeit darkly funny and inappropriate. Why the bloody hell are you doing the apology circuit now, kissing the ass of that degenerate bottom feeder better known as Sharpton?

FFS, this is what I would like to see:

Press: Dogfighting? Really, Michael Vick?
Vick: Yeah. So what? I don’t think it’s wrong. I don’t agree with the law. I did it. I got caught. So fine me, imprison me, whatever. But I did what I did and I’m not sorry.

Press: Racist, misogynistic humor, Don? Why, oh why?
Imus: Oh STFU. Have you never listened to my show? Grow a sense of humor you P.C.-loving troglodyte.

Just once. No back peddling. No lip service. Just honesty and unflagging, unapologetic admittance. Will it get you in trouble? Probably. Will you most likely lose your job and a lot of money? Most definitely. But at the end of the day you’ll have your self respect and dignity and you’ll maybe win a few new fans who appreciate the lack of bullshit being slung their way. It wrecks me.

Ha ha and oh well, not in my lifetime. This culture of fear we’ve created is just too appealing. And nobody wins. Nobody.