The Weirdest Of Shits

I figured it was about time I wrote something here, although I’m not sure I know the reason why.

The first thing that comes to mind, if I’m being honest, is that a few days back my plan got renewed; automatically, I might add.

That on itself, is not a big deal. I mean, I clicked on the option, I had the chance to un-click it, but I didn’t.

And that’s not a big deal either, hell I didn’t even remember it worked like that. I kept getting emails about my site being about to get wiped off the intertubes and I just let them sit there, figured I’d show them who’s boss for a little longer.

And then, just like nothing, damn thing got renewed. I got a thank you and everything. Turns out I had put some cash on the pre-paid card I use for shady shit like this and pretty much anything interweb related, and fucking WordPress, without missing a beat, took its (rightfully deserved) little bite out of it and moved on with its day.

But that ain’t even it, I actually took full responsibility for the fact that, having granted my permission beforehand, a service I had requested, on full use of my mental faculties (at least legally speaking), got renewed, exactly the way I had previously stated was my desire.

I took it like a champ, and quite maturely I might add. Almost in a… gentlemanly way. Good for me!

However, this whole deal left me feeling a bit uneasy, so within mere seconds, I was un-clicking the auto-renewal thing, taking matters into my own hands.

Boy am I a fucking pussy.

All it took was the slightest bit of extortion in the form of “are you sure you want to risk losing all your precious once-every-time-an-amish-overdoses-on-bigmacs-and-blow stupid posts by un-clicking the thing that helps you in case you somehow manage to ignore 45 fucking emails telling you this shit’s going down?”… and I had one finger trembling over my mouse and the other one straight up my asshole.

Yet somehow, I came up victorious. I un-clicked the thing, regardless of all my insecurities, although I must I admit it happened in such a pimple-ridden-teenage-boy-with-a-cracking-voice-asking-a-girl-for-a-dance tunnel vision blur, that I had to check mid-writing this crap, if I had actually opted-out or not.

This was, I repeat, a few days ago, yet I had no recollection of having actually opted-out of the thing.

Now, what’s the point of this stupid rambling?

The point is it doesn’t fucking matter either way, or at least it shouldn’t. Nobody gives a fuck except for some dark, moist and vanilla scented part of my brain (that’s what the bad place smells like, at least that’s how I like to imagine it).

I keep this thing here to somehow keep my silly internet name with a “.com” attached to it, under MY watch.

It’s not like I have anything useful here. And even if I did, it would be a repost of my own stuff that I have somewhere else, or a rehash of something I argued about somewhere else that nobody paid attention to so I gotta say it twice to have the last word at least once.

Is this a fucking memoir then? For what? And how? If I die, this thing won’t renew itself anymore and the site will die, at the most, a year after I do, deservedly so too, considering what a shitty memoir this would be.

And let’s be honest here, unless you’re there to buy shit, nobody uses websites anymore. It’s either that or or asking what a buttplug is on Quora (I almost said Yahoo Answers, that’s how old I am).

I could be writing the weirdest of shits and nobody would find out.

And I can get weird.

No, I don’t mean weird in a stick-lonerjuan.com-at-the-end-of-a-video-in-Spanish-even-though-everything-here-is-in-English kinda way, oh no. I mean weird like I’ll bring up abortions in the middle of cutting a birthday cake for someone else’s grandma while everyone’s wondering who I am and what’s with the tux and the singing in Italian, but without using the word ‘abortion’ at all, never breaking eye contact with the guy who brought the cake either.

Actually, I’m sort of disappointed in that last paragraph, I know I can do better, but I’m so sick of editing myself, of doing hundreds of takes that try to sound like the first one even though I know it stinks just as bad as all the other ones, that I’ll just let that humongous bombing sit there, in the vanilla smelling corner of the musty basement this place has become.

I can’t find a way to finish this horseshit, so this might as well be it.

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