After a beautiful lunchtime trek to Elysian Park with Nicci, I’ve spent all afternoon engaged in a heated debate with myself. I’m wondering…should I post the last “Adventures In Dating” that I wrote? According to Tom, Ilya and Matt, it is really, really insensitive, and I should only consider sharing it with the public in the event that I don’t care whether or not the subject of the story — or anyone she knows — ever speaks to me again. Why? Because I think she’s a regular reader of this here website. A website, mind you, whose readership has been kind of dwindling this month. You’re not telling your friends about me, I can tell. Still, you’re probably wondering how I could possibly argue for posting such a hateful, mean-spirited story in a public forum (especially considering I’m only three days removed from a harsh chastising of former Gawker editor Emily Gould’s pathetic, naval-gazing essay for the NYT magazine)…but you just don’t know how fucking funny this story is. You really don’t. The first paragraph:
“Dinner was fairly uninteresting, but contained a few noteworthy moments. The whole time we were chatting and eating, I couldn’t stop glancing at her enormous breasts. I kept wondering if, when I unleashed those puppies from the dress that was currently holding them firmly against her chest, they would sag all the way to her navel. I mean, they looked really good in their current state, but things not always as they appear. After all, I was sitting across the table from a relatively plain looking Jewish girl, and if I know anything about plain Jewish girls it’s that when I finally get around to unwrapping those vibrant, fleshy gifts they keep hidden under their shirts, I tend to end up playing with a pair of slightly deflated balloons.”
And really, it only gets better from there. I wish I didn’t have a heart and a conscience, otherwise it would have been posted long, long ago.
Which leads me to today’s rant against — of all things — myself. What the fuck am I doing blogging about food and nostalgia? I need to get back to the way things were when I started…when all I did was share my asinine inner monologue, intelligent, informed commentaries about pop-culture phenomena, and hated everything. That’s how I hooked you guys, right? Isn’t that what you come here to read about? Tell me if I’m wrong, but I thought posts where I called out sacred cows for being douchebags was why you bookmarked this page. The last month or two hasn’t felt a whole lot like “A reflexive exercise aimed at exploring the creative process of one of the world’s foremost unknown modern thinkers.” It feels like a shitty Livejournal stuck in neutral.
To quote one of my favorite all time The State sketches…”There’s-a-gonna be some changes around heya!” :spit:
