Blogging isn’t really my thing. Shit on a Ferrari and other observations.

I’m typing this post on my phone.  Let’s establish that right away and maybe it will give you some indication of the sort of mood I’m in and more so what to expect from me. Or maybe not. I just thought it was worth mentioning right away along with the fact that I’ve already made about 36 typos so far and it’s mostly because this touchscreen keyboard is not made for writing. But then again, I don’t always have a notebook and pen on me, as I should, and instead I only have this. So that’s where I’m at this evening. Sitting at a big table in a big bookstore with this crazy big phone that I carry with me constantly for some big and tragic reason.

Anyway, what the hell have I been up to, actually quite a lot…and I’m happy to report that it’s been a productive couple months.  Furthermore I’ve decided, at least for tonight, hence perhaps the purpose of this post, to get back to regular bloggy type posts (I’m pretty sure I made up the word bloggy) because I may indeed have some important things to say every once in a while. At least I think I may. These things may even cause you to smile on occasion, or laugh, or cry. Who knows? But I’m going to write these things and we’ll see where they all go. They may indeed continue beyond tonight, maybe even longer than a week. Then again, maybe not. Blogging really isn’t my thing.

I was thinking about all the possessions I might want in life and I realized that they would not include anything too snazzy or expensive and flashy, or anything along the lines of a Ferrari.

It’s no doubt a car I’d most definitely take for a spin or two or ten, but I don’t believe a man should have a car that he wouldn’t be willing to nick or scratch up even slightly without being absolutely fucking devastated. What I know for certain is that if a bird shat on my Ferarri, for instance, that my day would pretty much be ruined.

So what’d be the point of driving something that nice, something that basically needs to remain spotless in order to be adequately appreciated, when that sort of thing is bound to happen in life? Furthermore, if I was driving a beat-up sedan or rugged pick up truck, any relatively light blemish would phase me much less. In fact, the way I see it, the blemish might blend in; or yet, dare I say, even give it character. They are, after all, only scars or mere marks of living life. The kind that remind us that everyone gets shit on once in a while.

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