Please allow me to take my pants off first...

So I suppose this is just another seemingly pointless blog that I can add to my collection of "Seemingly Pointless Blogs" I have produced, written in, and shit on over the past several years. I'm what most people would call a "serial blogger". To be quick, it's much like a serial dater, except I don't have to deal with awkward sexual tension, shelling out money over watered down drinks, banal conversation, and listening to a mild tempered woman discuss her love for The Office and her own crazy cats.

This is the type of relationship I'd prefer over all. I can bring this to a close at any moment I choose with just the click of a mouse and the answer of a simple, company motivated e-mail. Unfortunately, most people don't respond well to this type of non-chalant douchebaggery, if you will, and so the dance of human interaction and pending relationships ensue.

I don't mean to sound like a complete downer on relationships. I consider myself to be quite lucky, having found a suitable partner who enjoys most of the same things I do: sex, wine, the great outdoors, smoking and watching America's Funniest Home Videos, and sleeping with separate blankets. He's a man of his own kind, and I think I can appreciate that.

I've reached a point in my life where I've realized a few things: I'm not as smart or as articulate as I was in high school, I can't stick to a project once I start it, people are rude and obnoxious for the most part, and I'm meant to work a job where I vocally kiss the asses of undeserving people all day. I suppose having a talent for people pleasing isn't the worst thing in the world. It comes in handy during job interviews and threesome proposals. When it comes down to it, whatever skill I have that makes bank is a skill worth having.

At least I have something I'm good at that's all my own. Some of you motherfuckers out there have nothing to worry about. Yes, I'm talking to you rich, white children of Greenwich, CT. I love having to listen to your annoyed sighs when you parents try to talk to you, in between you running your pink chubby fingers over you new model Blackberry cell phone's full keyboard. 

I digress. Who am I to judge someone's personal happiness? If leeching off of your parent's financial sack is happiness, then by all means, go ape-shit; Suck on that teat until it runs dry. But please, remember to perhaps throw in a kind word here and there. When you're 30 years old, married with two kids and living in that big forest-y dream home you've always wanted, yet you're still brutally unhappy.. at least you'll know you weren't a complete asshole to everyone. Especially to the little people, like myself.

Salutations.