a good first blogging

The settings thingy asked me if I wanted an "adult content" disclaimer. I thought no. Then I thought what if I use the word cunt, and then get sued by a somehow literate blog-guzzling four-year-old. I don't want to pay the little cunty cunt therapy for the rest of his life. I'm already paying for my own. Because I used the word cunt above. It shocked me. So I said yes. It's important to feel safe. And I do. Cunt, cunt, cunt, it's a good first blogging.
It has everything. Laughs, a gripping plot, real issues and characters you can relate to.
Fuck you, four-year-old. No lawsuit for you. You'll just have to work like the rest of us. Well, not that I really really work, I guess, per se. Pronouns are relative. Also, work. I do relative work. I work relatively. Not for relatives. That's lame. Like lime. Is it a lemon? No, it's a lime, the hipster version of a lemon. A lemon that lives in Greenpoint because Williamsburg got so commercialized, so standardized in its sterile originality, like a banana republic ad. And Greenpoint has so much more character. Fuck you, lime, I wish you lyme. Disease. Which doesn't affect fruit. That's how lame that is, as a disease. And it's still less lame than lime. Which is lamer than sub-lame puns, or self-blame. Fuck you Williamsburg, and oh fuck you Greenpoint, you are the two pointless halves of the same overpriced lime. And you, Greenpoint, You are on the G train. That's not even a real train. It's like three steps below the J in terms of believability as a train. Fuck that.
You, four-year-old waiting to sue me, you'll probably work for your dad. You'll go to the gym and talk on your iphone or whatever apple will invent in twenty years. A portable holographic lemur. A butler that turns into a phone. Gerard Butler that turns your phone into a lemur. Using only his abs.
You'll be at the gym talking on your holographic lemur-butler, even though you're not supposed to, but you don't care 'cause rules of common decency don't apply to you, no, you'll be lifting things and saying "what the fuck? what the fuck? you didn't get the order? what the fuck? Put China on the phone. No, fuck that, put my mom on the phone. Fuck you, put my dad on. You're fired. Yeah, I just fired you. That just happened. You cunt."
'Till one day you'll wake up and feel the empty weight of it all. And you'll die. Your dad will die of heartbreak. Your mom won't care, but she'll die to keep up appearances. The secretary you fired will be made CEO of the company. She will marry me. We'll text every day with our lemur-phones. We'll go to dinner with Gerard Butler and make fun of you.

If you think I'm putting too much hope in this blog, it's because you don't know what I'm planning on writing.
Which is something we have in common.
Pathetic and empathetic are just one syllable apart. I feel that sometime I live in it. Eventually I'll move. After all, everything does that. Maybe, after you're dead, we'll become friends. People are the most permeable border. Let's just not drown.
It's so easy to worry. That's why I wanted to feel safe. At least a little. With the disclaimer. So. Good night.