Sometimes, I get the feeling that I’m not appreciated enough. I’m not just talking about on the Internet. I mean in general.
But because this is the Internet, I can bitch about whatever I want. And because the fact that I’m not appreciated enough in general is too broad a topic, I’m gonna pare it down to just the lack of appreciation on the Internet.
In other words, this is going to be the most specific bitchfest of all time. Spellcheck just learned the word “bitchfest.”
A hyphen may or may not be required, depending on the region.
If you’ve read any of my previous masterworks, you’ll notice that most of my ouevre deals with sex. Not the gender, but that which is the goal of all human endeavors. Whether it’s P in the V, P in the A, A to A, V on V, or P2P, I’ve probably tackled it (FIGURATIVELY) and made light of it in one way, shape, or form (and there are many – HEY-YOOOOOO).
Now I realize that my humor is an acquired taste, depending on whether or not you’ve acquired taste. But whether or not you think I’m funny, I hope that you can at least acknowledge that I am brave.
Yes, brave.
Because it is not just you, dear non-blood-related readers, that examines the deep textures of my nuanced writings about genitalia – it is also examined by my family.
Know that every time I type out the word “penis” or “vagina,” it is no cheap gesture, no easy feat – it is an act full of courage and valor.
When I write a dick joke, I do it full well knowing and accepting that a relative of mine may one day find it and confront me about it. And I don’t know about you but if there’s anything I don’t want to talk about with my family, it’s intercourse.
Well, that and my personal feelings.
What I do, I do for you, world! So again, I urge you to appreciate me because, contrary to popular belief, I still possess the capacity for shame.
But that capacity diminishes by the day.
Are you saying that your family knows enough about sex to understand your posts? That’s dangerous territory my friend; it’s better to stay over on this side of the fence, wallowing in the sweet, sweet denial. Remember: the only things your parents do in bed are sleep and review tax information. See? Isn’t that pleasant?
When I was six, I ran into Ms. Torres, my first grade teacher, at the supermarket. I was horrified. Horrified! How could this ethereal creature, my first real teacher, the first teacher I had a crush on, sink so low as to eat food and wait in line at a supermarket? Next thing you know she’ll be burping and picking her teeth. So take heart and pat yourself on the back: at least you can bring yourself to talk about genitalia. I’m still stuck on food.