You know, I started this blog thinking that it would be a hoot, a source of laughter and merriment, a venue for getting wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, etc. I figured that it would be a casual thing, that I would have a bevy of devoted readers who would enjoy reading my babble just as often as I pleased to write it, and that it would of course be tons o’fun.
And this blog has certainly exceeded my expectations in those respects. If by “exceeded” I mean “completely destroyed,” which I do.
Oh, not that I haven’t come close enough to spit on some of these goals. Hey, I was even “I Love Your Blog”-d in what was possibly the proudest moment of my existence so far, mainly because the author of this blog is not only my own personal American Idol but also a much cooler representative of Alaska than, oh, I don’t know, anyone currently up for the VICE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.
But enough about that.
The thing is, in a giant stunning upset, people are suddenly wanting to pay me for writing stuff. Don’t get the wrong idea; there isn’t a Pulitzer involved or anything (except in the private dinner theater of my imagination, that is). But nevertheless, I’ve been writing a bunch of pieces for this online magazine. For the first time in my life, I’m a paid freelancer (as opposed to being unpaid and, um, not a freelancer at all). A positive development, to be sure.
However, a blog AND a weekly column AND a bi-weekly article AND two big, top secret writing projects that are also expected to yield me some money at some point in the future are suddenly adding up to a lot of work, especially since I still have a job. At least for the next five weeks.
Oh, didn’t I mention? I quit last week. Resigned, actually. I did this so I could move to Arizona in five weeks time.
Where am I going with this? What is my very subtle point here? Why is the person who handles your money referred to as a broker?
I AM BUSY.
Busy writing, busy packing (well, technically I haven’t packed anything yet but I’m definitely thinking seriously about starting), busy working, busy selling stuff like couches, busy traveling (I’m out of town the next two weekends and either coming or going for three out of December’s four weeks), busy hanging out with friends I probably won’t see again for a very long time, busy trying to keep the sweet guy who keeps bringing me flowers happy.
Considering that I spent a big chunk of the summer (something like 89% but I’m sure no one was keeping track) as a slothful wretch who basically did nothing, this is quite a change of activity pace for me. I’m not complaining, mind you. These are all good changes, if they do make me want to occasionally pound my head into something equally hard repeatedly.
But something has to give, and I think it’s going to have to be this blog. For the month of November, I will not be posting.
I KNOW. Please stop wailing and gnashing your teeth. You have such pretty teeth. I would not have them gnashed on my account.
All is not lost. As I am traveling so much in December (a trip to Vegas is involved, and I think we all know what that means… I may well come home a different gender), not to mention moving to a new city and getting a new job and getting to know my new family (well, technically they’re not new but living with them is), I am sure I will have plenty to write about when that time comes.
In the meantime, I will not leave this blog completely unattended. I have two or three people in mind whom I plan to ask to write guest posts on here. They are all extremely funny, wonderful people from whom I regularly draw inspiration, hope and blood (they don’t actually know about this; they think the bite marks on their neck are from their loved ones, and I am all about having other people take the blame for my nefarious activities for as long as possible). It’s quite possible that you won’t even want me back after having them in your blog-life. I will try to have one guest-post per week.
IN ADDITION, I have recently made the best discovery of my entire Internet life ever. It stimulates your funny bone to the point of orgasm, and reading it while at work is nothing if not an exercise in containing laughter the way you try to contain unwanted gas at a nice dinner party.
With (ir)reverence, I give you… Crummy Church Signs.
Because Joel Bezaire does not mind people reposting the signs he gets as long as credit is given (I hope he considers a modest shrine sufficient), I will post some of my favorite signs along with my own snarky comments. I will also try to aim for one of these per week.
So, there that is. Sorry for the horrifying news. Grief counselors are available in the lobby.