Since blogs have become a kind of superior social network for me, it seems only appropriate that I complete an intrusive list for an award bestowed upon me by Chrissy at I Should Have Been a Stripper. I normally maneuver around this sort of thing, but I realized that if I created a swell list of bullshit with worthwhile answers, it’d be a nice little writing exercise on my favorite subject: me.
Here’re the rules.
1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.
I don’t eat for pleasure. Eating, like sleeping, is an irritable chore that my body has committed to without my permission. As a result, I have a remarkable capacity for consuming the same bland food over and over and over again. Ice cream, of course, is a different matter. The only reason I eat ice cream is because I can’t liquefy Rocky Road and inject it directly into my neck.
Old people tend to enjoy the same crap that I do, and I have been the only person under 65 in line at Luby’s Cafeteria on many, many...many occasions.
If I were to call myself well-versed in something, it’d be that I roundly suck at Spanish, French, the violin, and the guitar, but I’ve studied enough of all four to not get rid of my books or instruments.
People who aren’t interested in everything are boring assholes without substance. I’m sorry if that’s you, but it’s time you heard it with honest constructiveness.
I love music but rarely watch local bands here in Austin, “the live music capital of the world,” because I have an unhealthy jealousy for other people’s ambition and success. I also don’t like people.
My girlfriend is an unbelievable ray of sunshine on my life, and I’m overwhelmingly thankful to have met her.
I have tattoos on my right forearm, left shoulder, and right latissimus dorsi. They enhance my sexy by three, and I’ve analyzed several different responses to them: 1) the woman who couldn’t care less about them but pretends to be fascinated in order to strike up a conversation and eventually remove her clothing for me; 2) the cold and detached woman who’s genuinely curious about them but doesn’t want to appear as though she’s pretending to be fascinated in order to strike up a conversation and eventually remove her clothing for me; 3) the woman who only brings them up in order to safely expose the butterfly, flower, or heart on the semi-private places of her body. The revelation is an instant turn-on that I resent for its frustrating results. Men don’t ask about my tattoos unless they enjoy the spooning company of other men.
I have no tolerance for intolerance (my favorite paradox) and only suffer fools because my college degree is worth as much stapled to my ass as it is printed on my resume, and I can’t find a good full-time job. But, I do suffer.
I would have been a much better European than American.
Here are some bloggers whom I read and am passing this torch to:
Sara Says Awesome
Something On Your Face
Good Twin/Bad Twin –already posted something like this but gave me a Kreativ Blogger award, so kudos to her.
I switched everything to 9 because I’m a wild man.
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