I can tell that we are gonna be friends

I want to have Jack White’s baby.

That was my Facebook status update today. I share that with you because most likely you’re not my friend on Facebook. Don’t take offense. On here, in this here blog world, you’re my good friend. We’re close. If I had something in my teeth I’d expect you to let me know. If you needed a shoulder to cry on then go on, let us hear about it in the comment section. We’re with you. But in the real world? Not so much.

I bring this up because today it slipped at work that I have a blog. Ouch. I hate that. The last thing I need is my co-workers reading my thoughts on Selma Hayak’s major yabbos!

(They’re like mini-basketballs. No, they’re like puff pastries fresh outta the oven. I want to stick my nose right in there. I want to dab each of them with a little bit of honey, sprinkle them with some powdered sugar and enjoy. Thoroughly enjoy. I want to crawl inside of them and conduct a puppet show with a moral lesson at the end for the kids. Remember a few years back when some supermodel got her tits insured for a million dollars? Well what are we doing for Selma’s bad boys? These need their own branch of government. These things could cure old age. For fuck’s sake! I don’t care if you’re a dude or a chick but the picture from yesterday's post should be in a museum. Am I wrong?)

Where were we? Oh right. These are thoughts I only share with my friends.

I have a really hard time mixing work and real life. A really hard time. And I bring this up because Facebook seems to be the point at which both worlds collide. Hear me out. I’m on Facebook. I collect friends. I spy on people from High School who have become uncomfortably heavy. I do my best to make people laugh with my status updates. But a few days ago I got a friend request from a chick I work with. I didn’t know what to do. If I ignore her then it’s gonna get awkward at work if it ever comes up. If I accept then my life is over. I don’t want her to see pictures of me hammered or wall postings from my slap dick friends. That’s for me to enjoy. When I’m away from work. When I can be myself.

I’m completely different at work. Please know this about me. I don’t talk about my junk, I don’t make jokes about little boys and I sure as shit don’t talk about what I actually did on the weekends. That’s for my friends. That’s for you all. That’s not for my co-workers to know about. I’m a respectable citizen of the working world. I’m not trying to be elitist. And I don’t think my shit don’t stink. (Check that sentence English majors.) But you know what? That’s my stink. And I hold its fumes close to my heart.

To be honest, I’ve never shared the applesandmoustaches.com link on Facebook either. It’s just another piece of me that I’d like to keep separate. I don’t want my neighbor from 5th grade who won’t shut up how much he misses his ‘boo’ to be in on this little joke we have going on here.

I’d be a terrible famous person.

Jericho and I have talked about it. We came to the conclusion that we are completely different people in the real world then we are on this blog. On the blog, I am a bit gentler, write about my feelings and always get mad at him when he berates a commenter (sorry Mark. Actually I don’t think Mark ever came back after that last one.) In real life I like to tip a few back and knock over furniture. Jericho on the other hand writes about pedophilia, sodomy and Shaun Alexander’s vagina. In real life Jericho’s a peach. A gentle flower with soft hands.

I just can’t do it. It’s a slippery slope. First one co-worker’s my friend, then another. Then I’m saying things on my Facebook status like “peanut oil is a tasty substitute for olive oil” and “Mondays sure are the pits!”

Fuck that.






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