Cheeeeeers Bitches!! This is the Matt-Man coming to you live in a literary sense, from my living room…
A place that houses my control center, the exact place where I tell women how much I love them over the internet, and the exact spot where I know that nothing good can come of my internet trangressions, but do it anyway.
Yesterday, the one and only Jayman wrote about some of his idiosyncrasies, his foibles, his weird ass habits.
In keeping with the theme he set, and more importantly, because I could not think of anything else, I shall maintain blog continuity and do the same.
I will however, do this in an un-Jayman type style…I will talk about myself in FIRST person, because, well…c’mon…I’m Matt-Man, Bitch, and as we all I know, I am the Sun and I revolve around myself. What, wait…what?
Anyhoo…a few things you may not know about me.
I have an amazing case of OCD. It’s not awful or anything, at least to me, but it is quite noticeable.
I like things in order.
Look at this picture of tree that I mentioned on my Facebook page the other day.
See that tree topper sticking up? I see that every day that I walk to work, AND IT BOTHERS ME!!
Look at our cabinets…Soup, soup, bean, bean, spice, spice…It has to be laid out that way. If it’s not, I may end up eating a can of Cream of Peas…And seriously, who wants that?
Not I, says the Matt-Man, not I.
Although I am a smoker and share the Bagwine digs with an uber-hot smoker in her own right, I am compelled to empty ashtrays if I see more than two or three butts in one.
And the pacing!! Oh Dear God, the pacing!! I bet I walk four miles a day in the apartment, because I think better when I pace.
I pace as I smoke. I pace as I drink. I pace as I talk on the phone and usually…I am doing all four things at once, because once again, I am Matt-Man, bitch, and I can handle multi-debauchery.
But seriously…
I am one pacing Mother Fucker. We used to receive complaints until the stupid, Norman Bates-type Nazi motherfucker who lived downstairs moved out, and then we got new carpet that could actually absorb the sound of my incessant plodding upon the carpet.
When I am typing out a post on Word, as I am now, the red line often comes up indicating that what I typed, is not a word, and you know what I do..?
I look at it carefully, and then say to myself one of two things...
I look at it carefully, and then say to myself one of two things...
Either…
“Damn, I really fucked up the spelling on that word.”
Or…
“Motherfucking Word doesn't recognize a new word when I have just made it up. It can kiss my ass.”
As you may or may not notice, I have a problem with rules, when it is attempted to be amateurishly applied to masters of the English language.
To be a true, eleoquent purveyor of one’s thoughts, one must write as one speaks, and if that includes made up words, and the hyper-pausitic beauty of the ellipse…
So fucking be it.
Cheers !!
Matt-Man
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