She’s beginning to understand me, old Internetta. Each day, she and her lap dog Webosperos know more and more about what I like, how I like it, and how much bean dip that means. She gets how I tick, brotherman, down to the last tock.

Used to be when I’d spend hours Googling myself, I had to sort through the business of Lory Nelson Greaves or Joanne Nelson Greaves. But now when I search, Our Lady of Net recognizes my self-aggrandizing habits and kicks these “lesser” results to the curb.

(Continued)

I just filled out my census, and boy are my arms tired!

Well, technically I’ve only opened the envelope. But I’m already trembling.

(Continued)

Let’s talk about marriage and haircuts.

Marriage terrifies me. It’s a hungry, big-eyed beast of permanence lurking in the forest. One that threatens to pounce and capture me with each approaching year until I’m 35 and ugly.

(Continued)

Say what you will about Americans.

Say that they’re fat and ugly and stupid and selfish and always causing wars and hypocritical in their Middle East politics and short-sighted and entitled and ignorant and smelly and hairy and hairless and inconveniently culturally diverse and bad at rugby and reckless with their abundant natural resources and that they’re lecherous and thieving and unpoetical and prone to unnecessary revolution and under-appreciative of Tom Waits who has consistently sold more albums abroad than in his home country which should theoretically provide more than a cult base for an artist widely considered to be one of the best living songwriters.

(Continued)

Where I come from, dreams go to die. I don’t mean Mordor. That’s where Balrogs go for iron-plated armor. I mean Fresno, California, which was recently ranked by Men’s Health Magazine as the drunkest city in America—this coming off of a 2009 distinction by the Daily Beast as America’s dumbest city.

Take a moment. Let this sink in.

(Continued)