“This is the type of girl who will have oral sex with you on your very first date but won’t let you look inside her glove compartment at the moment because it contains a Backstreet Boys CD. These are the true signposts of self-identity.”
This was a paragraph from what was going to be my latest entry, a manifesto about why I don’t like girls because they only want to date John Cusack and why it doesn’t matter because I can’t find a girl who is anything like Kelly Kapowski.
But do you really care? Realizing this a year too late I’m giving you what very well may be my last entry in this digital emotional tampon. Unless I have some truly wacky adventure that I feel should be read by strangers and acquaintances, this is it. Maybe I’ll move to San Francisco and start going out with Jodi Sweetin and the two of us will get drunk, steal a dump truck and get “John Stamos Forever” tattoos.
But more than likely, this is it.
The reason? Quite simply because all of these stories are either experienced with the people who already read this (“hey, remember last night when that bird got stuck in our oven, I wrote about it”). Or, they can be relayed later in personal e-mails, allowing me to tailor the story for the specific individual for whom it is intended, as in:
“I couldn’t believe he ate the whole thing, Matt.”
Or,
“I couldn’t believe he ate the whole thing, Josh.”
It’s been almost six months since I’ve last written in this. And there’s a reason for that. I assure you said reason is not result of a decline in wacky hyjinx occurring in the life of a one Joseph Alexander Mietus. Why just last week I stole a lobster. HA-larious!
But rather, it’s because I no longer find the joy in writing these that I once did. Writing these was once fun, cathartic, and gave me some joy in reliving the events as I wrote them down. Most of what I wrote was not only a way to relay stories to friends and loved ones, but to figure them out for myself. It’s been said that, “story is the vehicle we use to make sense of our lives in a world that often defies logic.” Amen that, brother. I wrote these for myself, you assholes just felt a need to pry. But for one reason or another, it’s no longer fun. Maybe because I’ve found what I’m looking for, or maybe because I’m going to start looking someplace else. Whatever it may be, so be it.
Also, now that I’m getting paid to do this – to a certain extent - I figure why should you get this for free? I’m published, bitches!
We’ve had some good times, kids. I’ve been served subpoenas, kissed Ben Folds, broken bottles, lost my bike, made over a hundred dollars playing roulette, exposed myself to the carpet cleaning guy, chased hamsters around the house and relayed each story to you with enough movie references thrown in to make your head spin.
But all is not lost for those interested in keeping cyber-tabs on me. I’ve started a fotolog. Check it out sometime. Trying to be James Thurber didn’t work out. Maybe this Ansel Adams thing will. Besides, they say a picture is worth a thousand words so I figure at very least I won’t have to type as much.
I leave you with what would have been the last paragraph of what has now become “The Lost Entry”.
“I suppose this one encounter many months ago is an unfair assessment of who this girl really is. I would like to think, if for no other reason then to save face, that I cannot really claim that this was unrepresentative of her character, much in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn't really claim that shooting presidents wasn't like him at all. But then I think sometimes we simply have to be judge by our one-offs.”
I hope I was right.
Signing off,
-Joe
This was a paragraph from what was going to be my latest entry, a manifesto about why I don’t like girls because they only want to date John Cusack and why it doesn’t matter because I can’t find a girl who is anything like Kelly Kapowski.
But do you really care? Realizing this a year too late I’m giving you what very well may be my last entry in this digital emotional tampon. Unless I have some truly wacky adventure that I feel should be read by strangers and acquaintances, this is it. Maybe I’ll move to San Francisco and start going out with Jodi Sweetin and the two of us will get drunk, steal a dump truck and get “John Stamos Forever” tattoos.
But more than likely, this is it.
The reason? Quite simply because all of these stories are either experienced with the people who already read this (“hey, remember last night when that bird got stuck in our oven, I wrote about it”). Or, they can be relayed later in personal e-mails, allowing me to tailor the story for the specific individual for whom it is intended, as in:
“I couldn’t believe he ate the whole thing, Matt.”
Or,
“I couldn’t believe he ate the whole thing, Josh.”
It’s been almost six months since I’ve last written in this. And there’s a reason for that. I assure you said reason is not result of a decline in wacky hyjinx occurring in the life of a one Joseph Alexander Mietus. Why just last week I stole a lobster. HA-larious!
But rather, it’s because I no longer find the joy in writing these that I once did. Writing these was once fun, cathartic, and gave me some joy in reliving the events as I wrote them down. Most of what I wrote was not only a way to relay stories to friends and loved ones, but to figure them out for myself. It’s been said that, “story is the vehicle we use to make sense of our lives in a world that often defies logic.” Amen that, brother. I wrote these for myself, you assholes just felt a need to pry. But for one reason or another, it’s no longer fun. Maybe because I’ve found what I’m looking for, or maybe because I’m going to start looking someplace else. Whatever it may be, so be it.
Also, now that I’m getting paid to do this – to a certain extent - I figure why should you get this for free? I’m published, bitches!
We’ve had some good times, kids. I’ve been served subpoenas, kissed Ben Folds, broken bottles, lost my bike, made over a hundred dollars playing roulette, exposed myself to the carpet cleaning guy, chased hamsters around the house and relayed each story to you with enough movie references thrown in to make your head spin.
But all is not lost for those interested in keeping cyber-tabs on me. I’ve started a fotolog. Check it out sometime. Trying to be James Thurber didn’t work out. Maybe this Ansel Adams thing will. Besides, they say a picture is worth a thousand words so I figure at very least I won’t have to type as much.
I leave you with what would have been the last paragraph of what has now become “The Lost Entry”.
“I suppose this one encounter many months ago is an unfair assessment of who this girl really is. I would like to think, if for no other reason then to save face, that I cannot really claim that this was unrepresentative of her character, much in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn't really claim that shooting presidents wasn't like him at all. But then I think sometimes we simply have to be judge by our one-offs.”
I hope I was right.
Signing off,
-Joe