1 Destroyed Liver
That’s it? That’s all I have to show for six-plus years, hundreds of lost hours of sleep and millions of guttural expletives aimed towards the heavens? It’s a small miracle that I’m not a gambling man, because Vegas would have cleaned house with those numbers.
The comment count is much higher than I’d expected, especially considering that for the past two years Shyzer’s readership consisted of my immediate family and some guy in Pakistan aimlessly searching for porn. Boy, am I sure glad I never embraced the “know your audience” mantra. Shyzer must have been a pretty rad party back in the day though. There’s no way I would have made it this far had so many of you not joined in the circle jerk and, for that, I sincerely thank you.
Unfortunately those days are long gone. Nobody likes the guy who doesn’t realize dawn is breaking and the party’s over. That same principle can be applied to virtually everything else in life, if you ask me. I strongly believe that anything worthwhile should have a firm beginning, middle, and end. Otherwise, what’s the damn point?
It’s taken me a while to discover the difference between blogging every asinine thought or frustration versus writing professionally for a living. Thank the Gods it’s the latter that piques my interests and pays the bills, because the former most certainly never lined my pockets nor my bedsheets.
It sure was a wild ride while it lasted and one that I’ll never fucking forget, but that sound you just heard was the gunshot behind the shed.
I’ll leave the archives up for posterity’s sake, but only because I still have an unhealthy addiction to pleasing all you faceless people. And they say romance is dead.
Catch ya on the flip side, rock stars.