Friday, August 8

Reports Of My Life Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.



Despite what some of the e-mails and phone calls directed my way will have you think, I haven't drank myself to death. I also haven't committed suicide, I haven't had a complete psychotic breakdown, I haven't checked into rehab and I certainly haven't grown another beard. When you little scamps get together, you're worse than a sewing circle. And how on Earth did some of you get my phone number?

I do, however, love urban legends, especially when they have to do with yours truly, so for the sake of carrying on a good story, I will not confirm or deny rumors that I got briefly arrested last weekend in the midst of a Whiskey Manhattan-induced fit of rage.

What I did do was throw my laptop in the garbage and drive to St. Paul in an attempt to drink myself to death, commit suicide and/or grow a beard, none of which was carried to fruition, I'll have you know. In fact, my time there was so nice that I came back feeling fairly refreshed. It probably had something to do with the massaging shower head in my riverview suite; it did wonders on my stiff neck and nearly knocked me on my ass upon our first introduction. I'll never forget the times we shared, Room 923. I'm sorry you had to see me naked so much.

I sincerely want to thank everyone for the well-wishes, concern and kind words while I was away finding myself in one of the most beautifully underrated cities in the nation. I'll respond to everything just as soon as I visit the landfill and get my computer back. I could go on about the reasons and arguments why it was necessary to disappear, even for such a short time, but I'm sure you care not to know. What's important is that I don't fall out of love with writing, and I'm making the necessary steps to avoid the inevitible messy breakup.

First off, I'll be posting a little less. This may stick in your craw a bit (wherever your craw happens to reside), but it's quality over quantity; ignoring traffic trends and writing one good essay instead of four poopy ones. I've been a slave to the hit counter for way too long, and it was hindering my ability to write a decent essay. You'll get better stuff to read, and I won't have to cry myself to sleep so much. It's a fair compromise.

Secondly, I came to the conclusion after months of stressing out about writing another book, that I flat-out didn't want to write another one right now. I'll come back to that when I'm good and ready. I can't deny that I'm a better blogger than author, and I need to stop pretending that I'm merely blogging to tread creative water while I write the Great American Novel. I can write books whenever I want, for now I'll focus on being the funniest bastard in the blogosphere.

Third...wait, that's it. I'm done. In fact, I don't ever want to talk about this again. All you need to know is that I'm back, I'm once again staking my claim of the Internet, I'm refocused and I'm out for blood. My attempts to self-destruct only made me stronger and solidified my lifelong mission to make everyone on the planet whazz in their collective pantaloons.

The CDP officially returns Monday. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your weekend.