Lazy Bitch

I’m lazy, okay?

This whole “getting famous” thing is taking a lot fucking longer than I had initially anticipated. I’ve dreamed of fame and fortune since that long ago day when I picked up my first guitar with the plastic strings, popped the collar of my red jacket, and began to strum and swivel my hips while watching myself in the mirror.

I was five.

Okay, I have to admit that that wasn’t my initial dream.  I gave up on being a fireman after a bad pull from a wishbone and I set my sights on marrying Elvis.

Then I found out he died before I was born.

And THEN I decided that I’d just BE Elvis. I feel like this is pretty fertile grounds for some kind of analysis about stalkers and psychosis and maybe people that wear other people’s skin.

Five minutes ago I had absolutely no intention of writing any of that.

The point, somewhere, is that I know that I need to be irritating the shit out of you with new blog posts, perhaps even two a days until I whip my slack ass into shape, but you know what? I’m tired. I’ve been sad. I’ve been really fucking angry.

Angry, you say? We LOVE it when you’re angry!

This is bad angry, y’all. Like, people would probably burn my house down and tell all of my secrets on the internet bad. Like, someone is going to cry and I’m probably going to relish in their tears, but that’s wrong so I won’t bad.

I’m completely cool with loner moping. I prefer loner moping to public moping and we all prefer it to blog posts about smacking your own self in the face with impotent rage moping.

(Don’t hit yourself in the face.)

(Aim for the side of the head.)

So, there’s that…

I just want to be fucking famous already. And rich. That would be good. I like that part.

But, I’m lazy and I’m tired and I’m angry and I don’t want to bring that shit to the table. I want to bring my fucking A game, y’all. I want to make you cry tears of snorty joy. I want to ruin your makeup, make you spit out your drinks, and choke on your food… but in a non-life threatening kind of way because if you’re dead you can’t read this shit anymore.

Setting all of those feelings and shit aside, I just want to say that I’m sorry for being a slack ass and for breaking the ‘cardinal rule’ of blogging by pointing out the obvious… that I haven’t posted in awhile.

That and I have news. This site, OLAP as I’ve started calling it because Oh, Look, A Paddle Boat is too long to write all of the time, is getting a face lift soon. The days of having to squint to read bright text on a dark background will be gone. It may also involve Kevin Bacon in some capacity.

We’ll also be launching a NEW blog. I can’t even keep this one updated and I’m making another one. I’m funny. This one will be a lot more interactive and reader based than the one you're currently viewing. (Although I am open to suggestions on blog topics. Too afraid to rant the fuck out of someone? Shit, I’ll do it for you. Because I like to give back.)

Heather Heartless deserves her time to shine so I’m giving it to her. In order to get this bitch up and running, I’m going to need you to send me questions.    ... bitches.

They can be serious, stupid, random, or whatever. I might even answer a homework question or two if it comes to it. Just bear in mind that I’m probably going to be a complete bitch about answering it, in a sarcastic but loving kind of way, that is. Just be advised that until I get it going, you’ll have to e-mail me your questions. If you wish to remain anonymous, please say that somewhere in your e-mail. If the question is serious enough or if I feel that it would be terrible to publicly answer it in a drunken bitch fashion, I can answer it privately in a “I’m just here because I care” kind of way.

Sarcasm and the internet don’t often mix well, except when you’re expecting it, so if you send me something like “My grandma just died of leprosy and was then devoured by a colony of rabid badgers…” and you’re being completely fucking serious, you might want to mention that somewhere because, otherwise, I’m probably going to offend you. And your grandma. And that colony of rabid badgers who now have to deal with leprosy.

No one can win here.


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