criticism sucks

The Alabama Slama decided to tell me, as one of my closest friends, that things have been slipping here at Whiskypants.

It isn't news to me, but not something I really needed to hear out loud.

Generally, my posts exist to keep you all up to speed on my life, which just happens to be some sort of hysterical Dante-esque seven-ring circus from hell. Full of gaseous, nose-hair-ridden cro-magnons who keep their catboxes in their kitchens, who decorate their homes with milk crates and plastic cups from sporting events. And who want to date me (why me???). These posts also include precious photos of my niece and nephew. [Any criticism of those posts will result in my posting deeply embarrassing personal secrets about the critic. You have been fairly warned. I am not above making shit up.]

Lately, life has been a little more quiet due to health reasons. Buuuuuuuuuut, I have a date (a first date - while the "fell on my ass" date guy has written again, he hasn't followed up to my response) set up for Saturday, though, so may have some new material for you on Sunday. Although, I really would prefer to have a nice time than have yet another astoundingly awful and screamingly funny story to tell. You know: not fall on my ass, not get robbed, not be subjected to various digestive ailments and possibly get to make out like teenagers. Seriously, God. I've been good (sans sex) for far too long, I let people merge on the highway, I yield to pedestrians, give up my seat on the metro to the decrepit, and I've really been trying to give up dropping the ole f bomb.

Can I get an "amen"?

UPDATE: The date was very disappointing. Awkward. Of course, what do I do when things are awkward? I make them more awkward. At least he went home quietly.