My only true competition: me

Well, honestly, y'all! I just spent 7 hours transferring all my words from their old home to this clean new house... and I'm blown away! (In retrospect, there may have been an easier way to do this, but at the time the most efficient way of moving the blog seemed like reading each entry out loud into a tape recorder, and then playing them back to myself to transcribe... Do I really sound that way?)

It's like... you never realize just how many pets you have until the city forces you to move, you know? That's what it was like with my blog entries! (Except those posts didn't crap everywhere and give me toxoplasmosis.)

I did the math, and over the two years I kept that blog, I averaged just short of 2 entries per hour (totaling up neatly at 63 entries for me to transfer). Early 2007, apparently, was a frighteningly prolific time for me. It made me worried for a little while that I might be getting lazier (not to mention dumber—some of those posts are very, very sharp).

This is a real concern for me. Laziness, I believe, runs in my family, and it seems to get worse with age. My grandparents, as I remember it, were relatively active when I was little, but as they got older they all became increasingly lazy, to the point where they refused to walk around without canes, or even (in a couple cases) feed themselves. It was pathetic—hey, Gramps, I want to sleep in too, but some members of the family have to work now and again!

Anyway, my anxiety was at about an 8 for around half an hour (have I ever mentioned that I have anxiety? I do), until I remembered that, during the early part of 07 I was almost entirely neglecting paying any attention to my gluten sensitivity. Too much gluten, and I'm like a meth-head with $30 and a knife. It's a cumulative issue, really, but I was spending a lot of time at the Cinnabon, and to say that I was asking for trouble would be putting it mildly. I was on a collision course with disaster, and if it hadn't been for my grandmother dying I'm not sure I ever would have pulled out of it. There's nothing like seeing a loved one allow herself to die of laziness to make you give your own lifestyle a very careful examination.

So enjoy those entries, but don't look for something similar in the future—not if you value my health. Those were the beat days, my friends. I was Burroughs shooting glasses off my own head, Ginsburg, howling at the Cinnabon dumpster, and Kerouac, drinking myself to death in my mother's living room. Heady, vital times, but no good for your health. I know, right?

Also... there's something I should address here. There were a couple of posts from the summer and fall of 2007 in which I had some very harsh words for business associates that, even now, I have not totally severed ties to. I considered leaving those posts to decay in the inter-ether, but, no, they're just as valuable a part of my (our) history as my review of the recent James Bond movie. I don't want to get into the specifics (it's all there for anyone willing and wanting to root around in the shit—public record, you know?), but, well, I'm man enough now—even if I wasn't then—to admit that that brand of vitriolic journalism (yes, journalism) is, ultimately, not very helpful. And, what's more, while association with the stinking affair doesn't say much that's positive about the Science Museum, it turns out that someone outside the organization was responsible for the "mix up" (a tremendous understatement, but we'll leave it at that). I recall that I may have compared the museum unfavorably to the institution of human slavery, and that really wasn't fair. Also, I understand now that it's rude, and simply a bad business decision, to refer to your employers as "rat-rapers." Now, the organization employs hundreds of staff, and, given the incidence of sexual perversion in our society, the odds are against it in regards to being entirely free of rat-raping... but, for the sake of full disclosure, I have no specific knowledge of anyone at the museum raping a rat. I mean, there are some (a lot) who honestly seem like the type... Whatever. Let's consider that matter settled. Henceforth, we shall regard that post with the same tolerance and understanding you might afford your grandfather's anti-Japanese Thanksgiving dinner rantings.

Just so we're clear, I love the Japanese. Maybe even more than I love my own white people.

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