As the act of blogging begins to feel pointless (which, I suspect, might just be the very point at which it begins to have a point) I feel to abuse the medium by perpetrating the lowest common denominator: the cyberconfessional.
Forgive me, blogosphere, for I have sinned. (confessions in purple)
I'm impeccably clean. I really am. But I don't wash my hands as obsessively as people might assume. I have nothing resembling germ phobia. Furthermore, most of my housecleaning (outside the bathroom!) is purely cosmetic. My obsessively clean house floats on a massive wave of total disorganization. The truth is, I just want things to look nice.
I hate my hair.
People with pants sagging well below their underwear line really make me kind of sick with anger and disapproval. I don't care if judging them thus makes me sound old, or intolerant, or judgemental. Go to hell all you butt-dragging ass wipes. All of you.
I sometimes exaggerate my level of disapproval of a given something, just for effect. I don't know what I get out of it. [Ed. Note: we were ABSOLUTELY NOT kidding or exaggerating about punching Bill Maher in the face.]
Once, when morbid curiosity got the best of me, I clicked on a link that was supposed to take me to a free viewing of a Paris Hilton home movie. I was relieved when the link was a joke. But I still clicked it. And I have to live with that for the rest of my days.
I know it means that 50% of the population will seethe with hatred toward me, and the other half will misunderstand, but I can't wait for that blessed day when we can joke about or question Obama. At the moment, every time I do so, someone cries, or hates me quietly, or worse, assumes I voted for McCain or Bush.
I ate meat the other day. On purpose. A piece of roast beef from a plate of cold cuts and it was delicious. I still have no desire to participate in the truly repulsive meat industry. And I still went home and made a tofurky sandwich. But there it is, hypocrisy on rye.
I just realized I could go on almost forever. There are so many things wrong, or at least questionable, in my conduct and/or character, that there might be no hope at all for me. No matter who is president. Damn.