You people are just a bunch of weirdos, that’s the only
explanation. Some days I’ll pour my heart into a post that I think will get a
good response, and I’ll see later that only 50 people have read it. Of course,
over time, that number goes way up. But at lunch today I wrote a mere few
paragraphs about a famous narrator getting a colonoscopy, and the statistics
went through the roof. So, what the hell is it?
Most of you who know me well, know that my sense of humor is
rather crude, and I rarely let that show in this blog, because the overall
theme is rather serious. I feel as if I’ve dropped the ball in that aspect, and
for that I apologize. This blog has been the Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll, or
whichever of those two is the funny one. I don’t know if either one of them is
funny or what show they are even from. All I can think is that they are birds,
but I think those might be Heckle & Jeckle. Birds? From now on I promise to
include all, not just my relevant and considerate thoughts and opinions, with
the assumption that your judgement of me will not waver from wherever it may be
now.
I’m at Nina’s Coffee Café now, and I have found a few
friends that I am going to chatter with until I leave for my meeting so I will
pick this up in the morning.
Morning. To finish the idea I was working with above, I had
a thought this morning that the reason for the high number of reads for that
Attenborough post could be as simple as the title. Everybody is interested in a
rectal exam, and David Attenborough is purely fascinating, and combining the
two made for a perfectly clickable title. It may just be that simple.
I’d hate to waste yet another post on my crazy thoughts, so
I’ll share with you a little story. You may recall a post I shared recently
entitled, How to Pee
in which I walked you through the process of “dropping a U.A.” for my
parole officer. As I have said numerous times over the years through these
posts, I am always afraid of a positive result even when I’ve been sober for
years. So, when my Parole Officer called me on Monday morning, I froze in my
tracks. Fuck, I had just talked to her last Thursday, there’s only one possible
reason for her to be calling me now; I failed the test.
My hand was hesitant to accept the call, and as the phone
chattered away in my palm, my whole life unfolded in my mind, even the
inevitable revocation hearing at which I would confidently be slung back behind
the bricks. My next two years would be spent sewing underpants together in some
terrible MinnCorr factory or even worse, I would be part of the MyPillow
family, making head cushions right here in the U.S.A. Short story, I was
fucked.
Cautiously I pushed the answer button. That didn’t work, so
I held down the button, and slid my finger toward the middle of the screen
until the icon changed color, indicating that it was now ok to let go, a maneuver
I am still unaccustomed to. Succcess! I was almost baffled that I answered in
time. And sure enough, the voice on the other line asked for me. I said, “He’s
not here right now.” Which was a half-truth. No, I didn’t say that.
All that drama in my head was for naught. She merely wanted
to reschedule our appointment from Tuesday to Thursday because she had a sick
kid. Of course, I passed my drug test, I don’t get high or drunk. False
positives are virtually impossible these days, especially the ones that get
sent off to a lab for analysis. I think it’s rational to be afraid of going
back to prison, but quite illogical to think it’s going to happen because of me
obeying the laws and keeping my nose clean.
Sorry about the title, I thought more people would read
this. I hope for the future of titles; I didn’t cry wolf.
