*Block*!

I have a confession to make. I have no topic for this post. Most people in they're lives have suffered from writer's block. Me? I have the opposite. Writer's flood. I have so many ideas floating around in my head that I just can't choose one. And to make matters worse, none of them are very good. Sure, they could be buffed up and worked on, but you know what they say about lipstick on a pig. (If you don't, you shouldn't try Googling it. Trust me.) And at times like this I, as both the author of this blog and a self-convinced writer, have a few choices to make.

I could try posting one of the many topics in my head, but I won't. Why? Because I have an obligation to you my readers to produce only the best quality posts I can! And I am aware that a small handful of people are reading this blog. And I am aware that they are doing it out of threat of physical injury. But, there is a chance that one day this blog will be read by thousands of people a day, and I don't want to receive comments in the future that read "I really love your writing now that you've sobered up".

I could, as implied in several posts now, drink to inspire myself, but it's a double-edged sword. To narrow the field down to a few decent post ideas I would have to drink quite a bit. And by the time I was done the topics would include toilets with chin-rests and my liver, which would be running screaming down the street. Not only that, the post would either be full of spelling and grammatical errors or else I would have to wait until I've sobered up. Frankly, I'm having a hard enough time squeaking these posts in before midnight as is, so neither is really an option.

Of course, there is one final way. I could take this swirling mass of ideas in my head and use my frustration in a positive manner. I could focus the lack of focus into something so different from all the others that it will practically write itself! Yes, I can see it now. Hunched over in front of my monitor, sweat forming on my brow as I type furiously. The keys keeping pace only with the fluttering of my heart as I breathe life into a masterpiece! A miracle!

... Or a post about having nothing to post. Same thing.

Gourmet Or Not Gourmet...

I have a confession to make. I take food a bit too seriously. That's not to say I don't enjoy it. In fact, as one could probably tell just by look at me, I like food a lot. The problem is that I like to cook and watch lots of cooking shows. It seems this has me convinced that I'm a food critic and that all things I eat must be judged. Today alone I explained that while I think certain mushrooms are yummy, they feel all gross when I eat them. Not unusual by any means. Surely average people talk about food being mushy and too tough. But not Kyle the Tungsten Tournant (Look it up. I can't spoon feed ya people!)! To me, the taste is tantalizing and decedent, while the texture is far below my liking.

When you put my father and I together, it gets even worse. We both love Food Network, especially the competitions. So, naturally, we began using the judges' jargon in our own culinary endeavors. Only, it spread beyond our own cooking. Now we dine in restaurants and dissect the meal as we're eating it! It's no more a "How's your food?"/"Good" exchange. It's "How's your food?"/"Well, the attempt is there, but the execution is less than cohesive and lacks refinement." It's as if our tearing the food to shreds with our words is how we let out our hunter/gatherer instinct. And heaven forbid we disagree.

There's only one thing that I see wrong with this whole exchange, and it's not the massive snobbyness we show judging things we can't make. Hell, that's the whole appeal of reality shows like "Project Runway" and "Top Chef". The real problem is that we don't seem to enjoy the food as much anymore. Everything, even foods once adored, is now less than satisfactory. I even have to put effort and time into making a ham and cheese sandwich to be semi-happy with it. Maybe if I turn off the cooking shows now and then, I can get back to the simpler things I enjoys scarfing down before.

... Although, I do make the best damned ham and cheese, if I do say so myself.

Shakespeare behind the wheel

I have a confession to make. I have road rage. Bad. I have been known to use words that aren't said in polite company, combine them in new and unthought of ways, and sometimes invent my own. Many a friend with straight hair has stepped out of my car with an afro due to the heat of my anger. It's a spectacle to say the least.

Now, I know what my triggers are. Well, what my trigger is. Stupidity. Let me explain. Attempting a right turn with no signal? Not smart, but forgivable. Attempting a right turn from the left lane with no signal? Flames shoot from my mouth. Speeding up and passing instead of yielding when entering the highway? Irritation, but no real harm done. Maintaining your current speed while staying parallel to the car that has the right of way until one of you is forced to slam on the brakes and let the other one pass? I break my steering wheel from the effort of trying to set you on fire with my mind.

When I have passengers in the car, it gets worse, shockingly enough. At that point, it's no longer solely my life that is in jeopardy, it's also my friends/family/random hillbilly hitchhiker. And if my brother, whom I am already freakishly over protective of, is in the car, heaven help the stupid that day. I have found myself freaking out more and more as my "parenting instinct" enhances. Which invariably leads to me calling a person something that translates out to "devious burglar of a part of the female anatomy". Which invariably leads to me telling my brother to never repeat what he just heard. Something he has so far stuck to.

And people wonder why I chain-smoke while I drive...

Winter Wonderland my left foot!

I have a confession to make. I hate snow. And the cold. And cold snow. I love warm snow however (i.e. rain). And, because I live in the northeast, I get plenty of chances to express my hate. Now, I didn't always hate snow. In fact, growing up in Georgia, snow was a blessing. An inch of snow (known in the northeast as "a waste"), and school was closed. By noon, you were free to ride your bike like nothing happened. Then I moved...

My first year up north I was greeted by almost a foot of snow on a Monday. Amazing! No school! ... Not quite. As I ran down stairs, ready to watch cartoons and daytime television until my brain melted, I was stopped by my parents. As I attempted in standard nine-year old fashion to explain that since this was more snow then I had ever seen, school was surely canceled, they merely pointed out that this was considered "light snowfall" up here. I would still need to attend school, and no I couldn't just fake sick. My hatred began then.

As I got older, I learned the joys of shoveling, driving on black ice, and horrific sledding accidents. Needless to say, my views on snow haven't improved much. So, imagine my "delight" when I went outside this past Thursday and saw snow falling and sticking to the ground. ... In fall. Or "the season heard of but never seen" up here. Some people may have used this as a chance to catch the "first snowflake-on-your-tongue of the season". I used it as a chance to scream "It's f@#$in' October! You can't give us two goddamn months!" at the sky, along with enough expletives to melt the snow around me.

So, I now get to look forward to a winter that begins before Halloween and that will hopefully end before Labor Day... Wish me luck.

Forgive me, my fellows!

I have a confession to make. There isn't going to be a post today. This is it. However, to make up for that, I will be posting twice tomorrow! And I mean it!

The best laid plans of mice and men

I have a confession to make. I suck at planning ahead. Well, I suppose that's only partially true. In all honesty, I can plan like no other. I fail at the execution. I can formulate a logical plan for anything from changing a tire (Step One: Place jack under car...) to world domination (Step One: Create mind control powder that tastes like salt...). Quite luckily for everyone, that last one has yet to come to fruition. Yet. As soon as I can make it sodium/gluten/fat/anything-that-sounds-unhealthy free I'm in business...

Back to my point. Failing to follow through on plans. Everyone who has ever tried to meet me at an exact time knows that I'll be anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour late. I try to be on time. But unless I convince myself that I'm supposed to be somewhere an hour before I'm expected, I always run late. And even when I plan on being early I sometimes just manage to be late enough to be on time.

Not only that, but there's more. Take this post for example. The original plan was to have this done and posted before 3 p.m. As you can see (Or would if anyone was reading this. [Outside of the six of you I'm forcing. Hi captive audience!]), that didn't happen. In fact, I planned to be finishing up the posts for the rest of the week so that I wouldn't fall behind. Yet again, not so much.

I plan on posting a post a day on this blog. And I plan to stick to it for a good long while. But... Well, you know.

Starting somewhere

I have a confession. This is my first blog. Well, I supposed that's not fully true. This is my first "real" blog. I went through a few brief flings with LiveJournal, but... Let's just say it ended poorly. The first try was nothing but the angsty whining of a teenage boy. Hardly Pulitzer material. The second was during a phase where I considered myself a writer. Thankfully, a few forays into open mic poetry reminded me of my place.

But this is different. I've been reading a few wonderful blogs and was inspired to start again. And this time, things will change. No more angst! No more whining! I'm on my way to being an adult, and I'm going to handle my problems like a real grown-up! (Expect a few drunken postings.) And no more attempts at being something I'm not. I am not a writer, I am not a comedian, I'm not Hemingway. Hell, I'll just be happy if I don't come across as Courtney Love on a bender.

So, you may be asking why my blog is titled "Confessions of a Bad Example". At least you would be if I had readers. (Fingers crossed!) Well, you've got my brother to thank for that. When he was born nine years ago, I realized I had strayed far from the good example path. I hoped that the least I could do was teach him from my numerous, and growing, mistakes. For instance, not getting drunk to the point of no return/in with the bad crowd/arrested.

Now I'm not saying I'm a horrible person, but I'm no role model. And maybe by sharing some of my stories I can guide people on to the right path. Or off the wrong one. Or just make someone laugh. At least if I fail, I'll just have one more confession to make.