Fleekin Floygn

Let's all stop playing the Noble Blogger game. Let's stop pretending that we're all just writing so we can get our thoughts down and really be more self-aware because of it. Certainly this is a factor, but I'm gonna stop lying: I blog because I want people to fucking read it. Yes, it's cathartic to right down my inner thoughts and dreams, but really, the only way that would work would be if I didn't take into consideration that other people might be reading it and therefore censoring myself, which I certainly do. So, having admitted all of this, I debated treating the blog more like a column, à la Sex in the City, but that seemed far too self-serving and arrogant. So I'm going to continue more or less what I've been doing, but without hesitating to reference past posts.

Whatever.

So in one of my initial rants I was discussing the joys of being a slave to public transportation, specifically the decorum regarding proper seating protocol. I saw a couple on the bus on Friday who were not going ga-ga with PDAs (which, you know, I love), but they were holding hands, and that's nice, and not frowned upon at all by society, so whatever, good for them. Anyway, all of a sudden, out of the periphery of my vision, I noticed some irregular twitching in the general area where their hands were so lovingly interlaced. She was picking the dirt out from underneath his nails.

That is so, just, - NAH - not cool. I mean that is a level of comfort far beyond anything I can even comprehend. I can't even get a boy to return a text message, and this guy is having his boogers picked out from under his pinky by his significant other.

I applaud you, sir.