So I finally got my haircut the other day. Had to do it, lady. Shit was getting rough. It was starting to look like Keanu Reeve’s hair in The Replacements. I even started talking in a strange. halting. manner.
I knew it was trouble when I looked in the mirror and said, “Bodhi, this is your fucking wake-up call, man. I am an F… B… I… Agent! ”
Let’s face it, if you still want to marry me after you’ve heard me quoting from Point Break, I’ve chosen well, Future Wife.
The actual impetus was that my hair had gotten so long that it was curling up from under the sides of my baseball cap. I heard rustling in my ears! It was like I was hunting partridge and one was taking flight every time I turned my head.
Not that I’ve ever hunted partridge before. My dad did take me hunting rabbits when I was a kid. It sucked. We walked around cold and damp woods, while I waited for some local yahoo to take a shot at us, and prayed I wouldn’t be forced to pop a cap in Thumper’s fuzzy ass.
And don’t even get me started on the time I was forced to skin rabbits. You heard me. It’s been almost three decades and I can still smell it… It’s… just…
Too soon, FW. Too soon.
I did learn two things that day. 1) I’m never eating rabbit. 2) I’m never forcing my kids to skin rabbits. Or, you know, any other furry woodland creatures.
I’m assuming you’ll want to have kids.
I think I’ll make a decent Dad. Especially now that DVRs will let me pause live sports and I won’t have to send a kid to boarding school for talking during the playoffs.
How about five kids? What? Starting line-up for a basketball team! No good? We can adopt. (Preferably from countries with tall people.)
Now, lovely Future Wife, I’d never send you a letter just to talk about my hair.
Or even about rabbit skinnage.
Here’s the thing: I almost quit blogging a while back.
I even considered doing a post for my birthday that said:
“It’s my birthday.
I’m done with this.
Smell you later.
Hmmm. Almost looks like a mini word doodle.
I even mentioned it to a couple people. Though I did tell one friend, “I think I may want to quit blogging… or become the biggest blogger IN THE WORLD.”
I was kidding. Being a famous blogger would suck. They get a crapload of hate mail and mean comments. I’ve only received one really mean comment. “Anonymous” in Colorado called me a “douche bag.”
And now I hate everyone in Colorado.
Seriously. If I got more mean comments, I’d get all GRRRR-faced and be trying to track suckas down. It would be bad bananas all around.
I would actually like to be the “recommended guy.” Like if a person asks a friend who they should be reading, I want the friend to say “Peter.” Maybe you’re asking a friend that right now. And if that chick doesn’t say “Peter” she is not in the wedding!
I just get weirded out by the blog scene sometimes. I worry that I am insulting people by not commenting on their posts. I worry that certain people are reading too much into my posts — or not enough. I get all caught up in it and it gets exhausting.
But instead of quitting blogging, I decided to just write. Whatever I want. Whenever I want.
And now I like blogging again.
It’s funny, I was talking yesterday to a friend that knows me very well. I told her that I just decided to stop thinking about everyone else and do my own thing. She laughed and said that she could have told me that was the way to go. Apparently being completely self-absorbed and ignoring everyone else is me being me.
You know, except for when I’m in a relationship, of course.
(If you could hear me now, you’d hear a little nervous laughter.)
So I’m still blogging. Maybe even more than I was. And I think that is definitely a good thing.
If I stopped blogging, how could you find me?