It’s been a while since I have graced the pages of another blog, much to the disappointment of at least 13 people. In fact, I have had literally 2 requests that I return to the pages of the internet (they have it on computers now). You can only ignore such demands so long (“Hey Rob. You haven’t blogged in a while.” I get it. You need me).
The beginning of success is the realization that El Dorado has not, does not, will not ever exist except as dark and perverted fantasies posing as glamorous legends — the acceptance that there are no shortcuts, that nothing worthwhile comes quick and easy.
I’ve been spending a lot of time lately getting myself ready for Valentine’s Day. Nothing out of the ordinary–picking out my favorite outfit, manscaping, honing my Rick Astley (that sounds dirty fella)–you know, dude stuff. I like Valentine’s Day. Of course I like it. What’s not to like? There’s candy, love, flowers, this:
It wouldn’t be the Christmas season if the stores were and hooter than they HOTTER than they are. It’s finally Christmas; the time of year when we care a little more; the time of year when we are a little more giving; the time of year when we can watch Chevy Chase and not feel dumber for it. And so, in honor of the season, I spent an evening pondering the true meaning of Christmas, warming myself by the fire with a warm cup of hot cocoa…
A magical event happens each year in March, something with which I am afraid far too many people are unfamiliar; a holiday that brings us together and fills our hearts with wonder and anticipation. I am not referring to the overly-commercialized holidays like National Frozen Food Month or Peanut Butter Lover’s Day.
There is a horrible idea out there perpetuated by romantic comedies. The idea of a soulmate (or in this case, one perfect campsite that was meant for me). I know this sounds horribly unromantic of me (especially after such a romantic blog), but there is no such thing as a soulmate, at least not as we know it.