Okay, I give you fair warning. This is going to be one of those bloggish type of posts where I rip out my insides and splatter them all across the interwebs. How you got here, I don't know, because I certainly didn't do any promotions on this piece of twaddle -- but since you're here, you might as well stay and see the carnage.
That last "musical parady" about McChrystal was a bunch of goat poo, and the story before it about Jerry Seinfield looked like it could have been good, but turned out to be goat poo, too, and it just seems all I put out are heaping amounts of goat poo, and I'm just glad nobody has invented "Smell-a-Webs" yet.
And did I actually post a story about buying a hat? I must have been on drugs.
It might be possible I'm running out of ideas. It might be possible I never had any good ideas to begin with. It even might be possible that I'm just like a million other people on the internet, trying to make their mark, but always coming up short because we're just mediocre and that's all we'll ever be.
Regardless, I've already made up my mind to continue, to never quit, to keep plugging along until the percentage of non-goat poo stories outweighs the smelly stuff, but it could take years, maybe even decades, to get the formula just right. And that's being optimistic.
Nope, I'll give it a year. A year is more than enough time of trying to be more than I am. And then after that, I'll go back to just going to work, coming home to feed the goats, mowing the yard on Saturday, and maybe even getting a little bit more exercise -- maybe.
Hey, I might even splurge and get satellite TV!
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