Hey, you. You there. I know you sense that I've written here about sports, and I know that you don't really care. I can already see your eyes glazing over, your jaw going slack. I can already see a thread of drool slowly unspooling from the corner of your mouth. You might want to wipe that thing, actually, before it reaches your... uh... too late. By the way, is that a new shirt? Damn. That's a really nice color on you.
The other week, Beau came home after work with newly-shorn hair and a look of deep concern on his face. "I need you to take a picture of me," he said.
"Listen," I replied. "You're going to need to stop making profiles on dating sites. We're married. It's done. No more fresh ling-ling for your dangle."
"I'm not trying to date anybody, jerk," he said. "I need a photo for my LinkedIn profile."
"Oh, so now you're exclusively dating businesspeople."
"Just. Take. A picture."
Y'all are pretty much aware that I don't usually publish posts unless they meet a minimum of 237,013 paragraphs. Accordingly, I save my briefer thoughts for expression via Twitter. Trouble is, thoughts aren't always short enough to cram into 142 characters, and they're not always long enough to hash out in painfully protracted swaths of vowels and consonants. Like some kind of binary letterform jungle on your screen. Every time you come here you have to use a virtual machete to hack your way through the textual undergrowth.
I'm really selling you on reading this blog, aren't I?