"Mom! I'm gonna do a dive, Mom! Mom!? You're Not Watching!"

Text your drug dealer and then your backup drug dealer and then your buddy's backup drug dealer.
It's Friday.

Have you ever wondered what dogs would do with themselves if they had hands?
I have.
A good guess would be that they would clasp those hands together in front of their chests.
Which wouldn't make any sense to us, unless they were also able to speak.
Then we'd realize that they were clasping their hands in front of their chests, saying:
"Please! Please give me some of your cheeseburger! I'm beggin' you!"
They'd also shake much more convincingly.

Written on June 30, 2012:
 

Sometimes I feel like one of the effigies in the salons. You know the sort.

There's a cat licking the couch cushions near me right now. I'm just going to say that and move on.

Like...I used to be somethin', y'know?

My tits were in the right place. My ass was proportionate to my body in  a flattering way. 

I applied my makeup with brushes rather than trowels. 

I used to BE somethin'. I really had it. 

I'd walk into the room, and man, heads would turn.

Now I read Us because They are the only ones who seem to have any sort of Life.

While I myself am a slightly appealing has-been.

I can't create, y'know. I mimic.

Like the octopus.

Maybe I should do this entire blog on four beers. I like this rhythm I have going on.

New announcement to make:

Tragic Hero from here on out is going to be The Four Beers Blog.

Four Beers to write it. Four Beers recommended to read it.

It's like this:

I need you people. And I don't even know who you are. 

I'm like a dog that way. 

It doesn't matter who's scratching me as long as SOMEONE is scratching me. 

If you have a dog who is lax enough, you can put that dog in the room with any sort of sexual deviant pedophile freak and the dog will be as happy and excited about it as they would a toddler.

I need you.

This hiatus didn't bring me any sort of joy.

I missed you at times. 

When I'd do something stupid in public and think to myself, "This is a new embarrassment for myself. Never experienced this one before. If only I could tell the guys about it."

But I don't know who the guys are.

I ran into Lorraine a couple of days ago. We were at the same barbecue. 

She mentioned how she couldn't read my blog because I wasn't updating it any more.

I am begging Lorraine's pardon.

I didn't know she READ the blog.

Tell me you read the blog.

Prince? Are you out there?

Prince, if you read this fucker, when you see me eye to eye, you TELL me.

Start leaving comments and signing them with your strange nautical symbol that you refer to yourself by.

Part of the reason I stopped - no wait. Let's start again.

You want to know why I stopped? Laziness. You want to know why else?

I would write each day. Then a day would pass and I wouldn't post anything. 

Then two days. 

Then four.

"Better get to that blog, fool. You could die soon and this is what they'll read as soon as you kick it."

Mom never reads it now (probably for the best). As soon as I'm dead she'll be on here every day. 

Weeping and moderating the comments about penis pills.

Seven days. 

Two weeks.

Now, I feel bad that two weeks have passed and I haven't written anything for you people.

But I don't know who you are. 

I don't know who I'm supposed to be apologizing to.

It's an exhausting feeling.

So I quit the thing. 

Remember that?

I re-wrote that closing post about twenty times by the way. For you! 

To have you think that I'm sincere (which is really for me, I guess) - and I think, "Five years and suddenly I'm leaving without notice. 

This'll get a reaction."

Nothin'.

Robert's sister Lori was the only one.

For a while I thought that she was the only person who read it at all.

One time I saw her step in dog poo while in her bare feet. It was gross.

I'm punishing her. That's punishment for being a fan.

I need a reaction.

Scratch that.

I need...acknowledgement. Not a lot. A little.

I just want to know that you read and that you care.

It doesn't matter who you are.

I write this because I want to affect somebody - anybody.

If I can't live in the adult world - and it's clear now that I can't - I'd like to at least be able to entertain the adult world, in some sort of fucked up, poverty-stricken transcendence.

I like the idea that you read me at work. That's naughty for me.

Fuck your job. You SHOULD be reading me at work.

Not because I'm clever. Not because I have anything enlightening to say.

Simply because fuck your job. That's reason enough.

You're bored and there's no point in watching YouTube without volume.

That's me.

That's what I'm here for.

Your cubicle is too small.

I want to broaden things for you.

I really do. I mean that when I write it. I really do. That connection is fun for me.

But there IS no connection.

I don't know that you read it. I don't know that I'm in your cubicle.

And that's alright.

I am the Robin Hood of the office.

I don't need the riches or the praise. I'm happy to help.

But these lapses - two days, four days, twelve days - they happen because of a disconnect.

I'm writing for everybody and I'm writing for nobody.

Do you see what I mean?

But you're all I've got.

And that means everything.

So fuck it. 

Leave me to my racking insecurities and I'll turn those into posts. 

Don't leave any comments. Who needs a round table discussion?

I'll just have my four beers and then I'll knock it out of the park.

Run around the bases while there are no other players.

No one in the stands.

I went to a Jays game in Toronto, by the way.

The foot-long hot dogs looked delicious.

Eleven dollars. Eleven!
That's almost a dollar an inch.
It's not fucking kitchen tiles. This isn't a bolt of yarn.
Give me a break.

Beers? Tall cans? $10.75.

That's a...I don't know how much markup that is. Where's Bussey?

I wouldn't even care.

I didn't care; I got drunk anyway.

But I would happily pay that if the cashier apologized while asking for my money.

I really mean that.

"I'm sorry, but that's $10.75. I have no idea who set the price. No one does. $10.75 with my humblest apologies."

I'd never complain about the cost again.
Of course, I don't have to complain again because when will I be at another Jays game?

Exactly.

I've missed you. I have.

I love ya. The wife loves ya.

Just know that I'm doing this for you.

I'm getting nothing out of this.

When all I need is validation.

I realized while on the road that the best bit that I have came from the blog.

And there are countless other bits in here.

I intend to dig them up.

This is free form. This is flow. This is healthy.

This is where bits should come from.

Until I take them onstage, turn them into a script and then hate them with everything I have.

I'm changing the blog's title.

I'm not sick of the name, necessarilly.

Actually, I may not change the title.

Let's not say that I'm doing that yet.

Let's get me back in the pool and doing a few laps before I try picking up that loonie off of the floor of the deep end.

The gypsy hex is lifted.
The hiatus is over.