Fictionary

I don’t like binge watching shows.   I also loathe the culture that surrounds it. The adulthood expectations of my boring life influence this opinion heavily, but there’s also the thought of having to drop everything and spend 10-12 hours watching something in a misguided attempt at keeping your finger on the pulse of what Twitter has decided is “in” that makes me want to yell at kids to get off my lawn in random places that just so happen to NOT be my yard.   But there is a show where I have relented, hanging my head as my pride deflates and I feebly gesture to your TV and Roku stick.   Also, I’m sure you have questions as to why I’m sitting in your living room at 2am in the morning, but there are bigger things to discuss here.           When I found out the next blog hop was going to focus on binging, my mind went to one of my favorite shows in the last five years:   Netflix’s American Vandal.   So as someone c...

Once upon a time, I was eight years old.  (I know, it's a rather shocking admission, but one I hope we can move past swiftly.)  Every store had an exorbitant amount   of packs of collecting cards for any random interest in any major cartoon currently airing, salad dressing was now pizza flavored, sneakers dazzled onlookers with arythmic flashes of red lights, and the local video rental shop had every SNES game that you could read about in Nintendo Power. The year was 1993, and it was quite the time to be a kid.  And alive, I guess. It was this year that a pecular curiosity began to culture in my developing mind.  At first, I was terrified by the implications of this sudden yet prominent force taking hold of me.  It felt wrong but it was a budding sensation I couldn't ignore. During playground conversations, I'd always attempt to bring it up but would always fall prey to the inherent caginess of my meek, introverted personality. Eventually, I talk...

      So hey.   I did that thing.   You know. THAT thing.   The thing I specifically and emphatically said I was never going to do because I’m through with that thing.   The thing I’m talking about was my promise to maintain a steady posting schedule on my blog and not go buy the proverbial cigarettes at the gas station after telling you that I’d be right back (sorry/not sorry).   Remember?   Well, I remember.   Pepperidge Farms remembers too, which fucking terrifies me.   They have people everywhere.   I mean, have you ever NOT seen their products in a store.   The reason for the radio silence?   Well…I moved.   Bigly moved.   My wife and I jumped about 6 states to the west and now we live in Northern California.   Now I shall do this: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THIS IS CRAZY WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING?   Actually, the r...