A couple of months ago, I had a thought. Looking back now, I think it was more of a moment of weakness, but the idea formed in my brain, and I took action. I decided to download Tinder, the dating app. Actually, in my opinion, Tinder is more of a dressed-up hook-up app (i.e. a fancy Grindr). That old expression, “putting lipstick on a pig,” feels like an accurate way to not only describe Tinder but the bulk of dating apps today. Maybe even dating in general, whether you use an app or not. (And if you don't use an app to date, what's your secret?) Still, I gave in and started swiping . . . . . .
Back in May, I lit a match to my life. Things weren’t working out; I wasn’t happy. Change, though terrifying to consider and actually follow through with, seemed not only necessary but vital for my emotional and mental survival. As a result, I’ve been called everything from a pussy to a motherfucker to courageous for taking charge of my life and—as my cousin would say—hitting the reset button. Am I running? Am I moving forward? Who the fuck knows? Not me, not yet. Probably not any time soon, either. You see, I’ve been traveling. Ohio. New Jersey. New York City. Florida. Nashville. . . .
It should come as no big surprise that my favorite “F” word is fuck. I especially like this word when it’s dressed up with motherfucker or go fuck yourself. My fascination with the “F” word began at a pretty young age. I have a distinct memory of me running around the house, four or five years old, telling anyone in my line of vision: “Don’t fuck with the babysitter.” I guess I also had a fascination with Elizabeth Shue’s character in Adventures in Babysitting. Yes, I was a handful as a child. And, as most people in my life can attest, still am a handful. However, today, we’re going . . .
I feel like my last few blog articles have been heavy. No, I’m not going to make a fat joke here. Surprise, bitch! Yet, it’s obvious, and I think note-worthy, that I’ve gone kind of deep lately. Well, deeper than normal for me. No, I’m not going to make a sex joke here. Surprise, bitch—again! Also, get your mind out of the gutter. Actually, to be fair, in order to enjoy this particular article, you might want to keep your mind in the gutter. That’s your warning to skip this particular piece of content, Mom, Dad, teachers from the past . . . anyone and everyone who may not be overly excited . . .
I’m the type of person who beats a dead horse until it’s, well, dead. And then, just to make sure it’s really dead, I circle back once, twice, thirty-three times to verify. Sorry for the metaphor, PETA. Yet, you can rest easy knowing that no animals were harmed in the making of this blog article. In my previous articles, I’ve bitched about men, social media, phones . . . You’re right: At this rate, we’ll be here for a while. Let’s save some time and say I’ve bitched about quite a lot over the past two years. In writing, anyway. Yeah, sure, in person, too. Today is no different; I’m here . . .