I heard somewhere that if you don’t have anything to say that won’t get you in trouble, you should only tell 90 of your closest friends. And you should do it over the phone. Unless your friends are stenographic hobbyists, and then you shouldn’t call them unless you want all that cursing preserved for the sake of posterity*.
Some of you, my faithful readers who number in the 10s, might have noticed that I’ve taken some time away from telling stories and being the butt of my own jokes. And, for the next few days, while I look for some stories to tell that aren’t actionable^, I’m going to maintain my radio silence.
I’m sure I’ll be back soon with stories of what happens inside my brain when I fall down in public. It’s not like I’m bummed out, or pissy, or sad**. I’m just sort of blocked. I’m also taking my cues from the fact that I left someplace fun on Friday night to go home and eat spaghetti and brood. And those cues are telling me not to tell the stories that I’ve got in my back pocket right now. Because it would be the same thing as me grabbing my pitchfork, throwing some kerosene on my torch, and leading the mob into chaos.
And now, to leave you with a song*^:
*Though I’d like to think that future generations would applaud some of my more creative strings of profanity.
^ I did write some things this weekend. And realized halfway through at least two posts that what I was saying, if read by the wrong people on the wrong day in the wrong frame of mind, could get me in lots of trouble. They’re things that I would actually have no problem saying face-to-face, but out here, in the void and without inflection and nervous smiling, might not land with the usual charm.
** I thought that was worth mentioning, since I thought I sounded a little bummed out.
*^ Mock me all you want. You nerds liked this song in high school, too.