If you’re reading this, you’re a weirdo. I’ve given you plenty of chances, but you keep being weird. I don’t mean a complete weirdo. But you are. You’re like a big fat hairy guy trying to fit into a photo shoot with supermodels.
Yes, you are the big fat hairy guy.
Look at you. That gleeful, six-sheets smile. Thinking you’re “all that” (your words, not mine). Covering your hairy nipple—why are you covering that nipple?
I’ll tell you why:
Because you think we want to see it.
A little hairy pink part of your weirdness.
The other reason you’re hiding that nipple? Because you want to withhold a little private part of yourself that even we can’t see. You are withholding something, but at the same time letting us see more of you than you show anyone else.
You’re fu*king weird.
Let me explain.
Even if you’re not a blogger, you’re still spending way too much time on the internet. The whole pixel thing is an elaborate sham. The fog in the ether has you believing this sh*t is for real. You care about people that pretty much don’t exist, or just exist until their laptop is stolen and they discover trees.
I’l make a confession. I’ll show you a little nipple. Here it is:
I don’t know a damn thing about some of the people I work with 8 hours a day, but if a stranger has a pimple on his scrotum, he’s going to tell me about it in his blog. Along with all the sordid details of his date with that chick who has breath like his grandma.
Why should you (or I for that matter) give a sh*t about any of this?
Because we’re weirdos.
If I had a pimple on my scrotum, I might put it in the blog, because many people would be interested in my scrotum pimple, and would be even more interested if I posted a picture. The hits to this site would go through the roof. All I would have to say is, “I’m going to post a picture of my scrotum pimple.” People would be knocking themselves over to get to their laptops to click like. WordPress servers would freeze. You would ignore a phone call from your dear mother who actually loves you and wants to talk about her regularity now that she’s eating bran.
All because of the pimple on my scrotum.
This is the kind of stuff us fat, hairy guys do so we can fit in with you beautiful people.
But wait. I was talking about how weird you are. You avidly read the postings of people you don’t know and interact with them more than your mother’s regularity and care about them and cyber-rush to their aid yet you won’t offer a napkin to that bonehead who just spilled coffee all over his pants (ironically scalding his scrotum which he was planning on photographing later).
But you will never meet any of your cyber-buddies! They will eventually fade like your high school friends’ faces and you’ll realize you never friended them on Facebook so now you’re all alone, with only flesh and blood humans around you, some of whom take very regular poops and are dying to tell you about it in detail.
And here comes the weirdest part of you, the part that makes this photo shoot with you and the supermodels the weirdest thing of all:
If any of these people that you comment on and interact with and think you care about ever actually tracked you down and knocked on your door and introduced themselves and said they drove 3000 miles wearing a diaper so they could get to you faster, you would say something like this:
Excuse me, but you’re a weirdo.
And then you would realize how truly weird you are.
But you don’t know. Because you think you’re just one of the girls.
But you’re not.
And neither am I.