Whassup!
I want to give you a lo-fi look behind the scenes at How To Get A Grip.
I hope you enjoy this very short video as much as I did.
There’s video in here. Click through if you can’t see it.
Whassup!
I want to give you a lo-fi look behind the scenes at How To Get A Grip.
I hope you enjoy this very short video as much as I did.
There’s video in here. Click through if you can’t see it.
Me in November 2009**
This is my story of addiction. It is the most difficult thing I have ever written.*
In sharing this with others, I hope I can help those with similar problems.
It started off innocently, as these things always do.
The year was 2005, a little over six years ago.
I was at a party with some people I didn’t know very well. Not friends, not acquaintances, just some folk who I’d met in a bar. They seemed OK.
After drinking a few more beers at somebody’s house, an older guy cornered me and pushed a small brown envelope into my hand.
“You’ll like this,” he said, as he winked at me.
“No thanks, I’m not interested,” I said.
“Just try it once,” he said. “A little bit won’t hurt, and you might even enjoy it.”
I was drunk and my resistance was low. I took the envelope into the guest bathroom, sat on the pan, and carefully opened it up.
This is the de facto homelessness-prevention solution. Make sure you’ve got one true friend, don’t be an ass, and you’ll always have a bed for the night.
That said, you might want to invest in more than one friend. A guest, they say, is a like a fish: after three days, it stinks.
Yep, your family can push your buttons better than anybody else, because they’re the ones that sewed them on in the first place. Take a deep breath. It’s biology, and you’ve got to live with it.
In fact, buy two. I’ll reimburse you for the second one.
“Where have you been?”
“What are you thinking about it?”
“Does my bum look big in this?”
Matrimony for men is, in large part, an abdication of responsibility for thoughtfulness. You’ve got us. Isn’t that enough?
cf point 2. It’s biology.
Try the gentler approach: “Honey, can you pull over so I can buy you some beer?”
Then use that shopping opportunity to secretly determine your route without his shamefaced complicity.
And anyway, secrets are misunderstood. It doesn’t count, for example, if you only tell your three closest friends.
Some things are made for sharing: bodily fluids, bottles of wine, secrets.
Pizzas are like fantasies about sleeping with tramps: best enjoyed alone.
Even though I wrote this, I don’t understand it. It sounds like it should be true, and slightly catty. But for the life of me I can’t work it out.
Proof, if proof was needed, that I’m not half as smart as I think.
I think.
(Based on experiences of everybody’s dad.)
I’ll tell you from first-hand experience in ten years’ time. Any corroboration welcome in the comments.
And that, my friend, is FACT.
The countdown has begun …
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